Hearing Things
by Syeira-la
Summary: In this Quell, sanity will be harder than ever to hold on to. Tributes will be isolated from everyone before the Games, including mentors and other tributes. The only help they will receive is from the voice of a dead tribute planted in their own heads.
1. Chapter 1

**Reading all of your amazing fanfictions has me pumped up to do one of my own, and I'm finally getting around to it now. I'm sure all of you read the summary, but to clarify what this fic is about: for this Quarter Quell, tributes will be isolated from all of the other tributes until the moment the Hunger Games begins, and they will have absolutely no mentors, stylists, etc., to help them in the pre-Games ceremonies. Instead, the assistance that would usually be performed by mentors will be carried out by the voice of a dead tribute from Games past that is implanted in each tribute's head. You'll just have to see where it goes from there. If you read any of this story, even if you don't like it, a review would be appreciated just so that I know that you're following along. :) **

**xxxx**

I don't know why tributes are ever surprised when their name is called. A weight is thick in my chest as the slip with my name on it flutters between the fingers of our escort, but the initial shock is already wearing thin. Now it seems inevitable. Inescapable.

That's what I think as I mount the steps to the stage – that I should have seen this coming.

**xxxx**

District 7 isn't really like District 11, but we could almost be a page out of the Agricultural District's population.

"We goin' to check the crops _now_?" Rom groans from beside me, tugging on the back of my shirt collar to bring me to a halt.

There are no real crops in District 7, but that's what we call our trees. As plants, I guess they're not so different from crops, but the D11 comparisons don't stop there. We "plow" and "harvest" the trunks – cut 'em down and load them onto the trucks. The "buds" are the newborn saplings.

"Yeah, we're gonna check them now," I affirm, grumbling as I pry his hand off of my shirt. "We're on maintenance. I know that you're into this new muscle thing for the ladies, but we're not plowing today."

Rom hand drops, and he frowns. He hates it when I tease him about his obsession with girls, but I've never seen him keep his eyes to himself and it's true that recently he has been trying to bulk up specifically for the opposite gender.

"But maintenance is boring," he grouses back, chewing on the side of his cheek irritably. "There's nothin' fun about looking at the buds. Now, if we were chasing after womanly buds…" his eyebrows wiggle and I punch him in the arm.

"You're not allowed to yell at me for teasing you if you can't even keep your tongue in check." I roll my eyes, but as always with Rom, it's good-natured.

Rom's eyes glow, unaffected. "You'll see, Arden."

I can't resist. "How would you know anything? I wouldn't say you're that experienced." I can't say it with a straight face, bursting into laughter halfway through the sentence.

"Come on," he finally hisses, wrinkling up his nose and looking even mousier. "I want to get home, so let's go." Ever in my personal space, he shoves me back, though he was behind me in the first place.

I lope after him slowly, intentionally stepping on every stray twig I can find so that we won't end up stepping on some snake. I've had snake bites before and they were the cause of a deep-set phobia of reptiles.

A few minutes into the walk, Rom spins to face me with a lopsided frown. It's obvious that he's trying not to laugh. "Would you stop kickin' all that stuff? You're scaring off all the scenery." It's true – there's not a living animal within a mile radius of us – and I guess I am overreacting a bit because Rom has set me in a foul mood. His face splits into a grin, and I shake my head in mock exasperation. Rom can never hold a grudge. "Besides," he adds, patting my back eagerly to urge me forward, "we're here. And I have at least three chicks at the square waiting for my presence when we're done."

"Alright, let's hurry, then," I say, bad mood forgotten. I can see other workers faintly through the trees, taking care of their own crops. We're simply supposed to make sure no bugs are on the saplings and that there are no disease spots on the leaves. Normally, Rom and I are working on plowing, even though he's not the brawniest guy around. I guess there's just a shortage of bud checkers tonight, because this is what we were assigned to.

When we're done, we can go home. We get an earlier cut off time tonight – later tonight, the Quell's theme is to be announced and that's required watching.

There are no girls waiting for Rom when we get to the square. I snicker and head home, thinking that it was a bad idea to encourage his fantasies about girls waiting for him. He's going to be a mess tomorrow. Still smiling because of Rom's rejection, I dump my tool bag on the table waiting for me just inside the front door.

My mother, thinner than ever, is leaning over the back of the couch in our living room. She's gripping the back of the grimy thing, which it took all of our combined efforts to afford. None of us wanted to keep sitting on those loose little wooden chairs when all three of us had paying jobs.

She turns to look at me, loose blonde hair hanging limply around her face. She has tied the rest of it into a low ponytail, trying to look put-together. The circles under her eyes give her away, though – today was a hard day. But what isn't a hard day for my parents? They both have tough jobs – my father out in the forest like me, and my mother at the paper mills. But it works. My family is like a well-oiled machine, each member striving for the combined good of everyone. We're better off than most families around here.

The TV flickers in front of the couch, and my mother returns her eyes to it after nodding me a greeting. "They're just about to announce it," she announces in her rasping whisper of a voice. That voice is how she snagged my father, she tells me. My father, who is conspicuously not here. He's off work for sure, but he's not here in front of the TV like the rest of us.

"Am I really that late?" I ask, puzzled. I had thought that I'd get home with plenty of time before the Quell announcement. Time must have gotten away from me.

She nods, not bothering to look back at me. "It's your second to last year," she muses, "so pay special attention, ok?" Her voice touches on pleading, and when she does finally look back at me her blue eyes are wide.

"Bathroom, bathroom, I'm coming," my father explains, skidding into the living room. So that's where he was. He takes a spot beside my mother, standing because all of us are much to tense to actually sit. The Quell could still affect us directly at my age. Each year, I try not to put much thought to the Hunger Games. They're horrible, but worrying about it isn't going to keep me safe. I can keep away the fear until I'm standing in the Reaping pen, and that suits me just fine.

Our president hasn't entered on screen yet, with reporters still crowding the TV frame, but it isn't long before he fills the stage. This man is built like a brick, with darkly tanned skin, thickly curled black hair, and blank eyes. He's an intimidating guy, so different from his snaky predecessors, and I never know what to think of him. When he speaks, it's without inflection. His eyes are empty. I've never seen him let an emotion slip. To be honest, it unnerves me.

There's a moment of hushed silence and then a long string of political words that I don't bother following. Then the president is bringing out the box of incredibly yellowed cards that contain each quarterly twist. Fear lances through me then, unexpectedly. I have no more chance of being picked this year than any other year, so I haven't let the Quell scare me just by thinking about it. But I've never seen a Quarter Quell before, and the reality is more crushing than I realized it would be. I suddenly can't breathe. _Why can't I be nineteen? _All my breath wheezes out of me, leaving me stranded.

Our president is recounting the tales of past Quells, all the way from the first one. Our Quell will be the sixth horror story, and 25 years from now a new president will give a brief summary of this one. What if I'm one of the victims? What if, 25 years from now, when other kids are fighting in that arena they have no idea that I was once a Quell kid like them?

But that's silly, I remind myself a moment later. I'm not necessarily going to get chosen. However cheesy it is, the odds _are _in my favor. With that thought in mind, I push my hair back out of my eyes and refocus on the television.

Our president wastes no time after the official proceedings are completed. His eyes flick to the card he has pulled, ignoring the cameras. "This year," he reads, eyes still down, "in order to remind the Districts that any unity found during the Dark Days was empty and that alliances always fail, tributes this year will not have the opportunity to form any before the Games. Instead, tributes will be kept completely isolated from the other tributes and mentors before the Arena and will only have one assistant to prepare for the Games – a randomly selected tribute from a previous Hunger Games." He abruptly stops speaking, letting the news sink in.

Wait, what? My eyebrows crease in confusion. What is he going on about? Normally, Quell twists are simple enough. Vote for your tributes. 48 tributes. Etcetera. But what our president just threw at me was a mouthful of garbage.

"Honey?" My mother asks tremulously, turning to my father. "What…?"

He's shaking his head. "I guess that if you're reaped you won't see the other tributes before you enter the Games, and you won't have any support from mentors and the like." He shrugged.

"What about the part about previous tributes?" My mother grasps at my father's shirt nervously, fiddling with the buttons with one hand.

I've been wondering the same thing. He must have been referring to victors, because they're the only ones that get out alive. But our mentors are victors, and we're not supposed to have any contact with them. I'm thoroughly confused.

"I'm going to bed," I say abruptly, rubbing my forehead and stalking away. I'm not tired, even though it has been a long day. I'm just overwhelmed. I don't even know what to think, and no epiphanies are coming to me. In fact, my mind is completely blank. Instead of racing, like I had expected it to, it is offering me no solutions.

_Damnit. _A roaring headache has appeared, taking advantage of the waves of frustration rolling across me. I rub my forehead angrily, willing the pain away. Maybe I _should _just go to sleep. I don't need to figure this out right now – there's a very small chance that it will affect me directly. All I really need to know, I guess, is that it's probably going to be terrible.

I give up and crawl under the covers, still massaging my forehead and the thick hair getting in the way. I know I probably shouldn't be giving up this easy; that I should try harder to at least process the twist. But I won't. I'll figure it out later. Hopefully when I'm watching it unfold on my television screen.

I turn onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut determinedly. I'm going to sleep right now. I'm not going to think about this. I'm not going to let myself entertain what's really gnawing at my head – the thing about the previous tributes. Tributes, not victors.

Those tributes are dead.

This isn't possible.

But I will sleep anyway.

**xxxx**

No one understood the Quell announcement, really. We're District 7, after all; not the smartest leaves off the trees. As a result, the adults especially let themselves forget about the announcement. It's not like they were going into any arena. Among the teens there was rampant speculation for a while, complete with conspiracy theories, but no one thought too hard about what the "past tributes" were. We live on a day to day basis, so it was easy to let it fade into the back of our minds.

But as I mount the stage to shake hands with my new district partner I know that I should have thought harder that night.

Because now I'm a part of it, and I can't fight something I don't understand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Back again! First of all, I'd like to send out sincere thank you's to my two reviewers. You guys have no idea how happy you made me. :) If you have any questions or crit, feel free to send them my way. Even just a nice word or two makes me write like a crazy person. (In fact, I have the first five chapters written because of you two.) Read on, fanfictioners! Question: I revolve my stories mostly around character development. I know most of you guys like the idea, but what about the main character? Is he a fun read? Do you guys like him? Any suggestions? :)**

_I have to figure this out right now_. I'm climbing those stairs, every step a wooden thunk. I'm struggling, going slower than I should. I can almost hear the impatient tsks from our escort, who I haven't even bothered to glance at. The Capitol crowd would be getting testy.

But why am I thinking about all that right now? Cold, panicked sweat rolls off of my brow. I should be making the most of these steps, when I have my back turned to the crowd. I can take it all in now, give myself time to compose a brief strategy about presenting myself. I'm wasting time thinking about the pace of my steps.

_Shut down, _my brain whispers helpfully. As I slowly turn to face the crowd, I decide that it's a good idea. By putting on a blank face, I won't look scared or confused. I'll look confident. I won't be giving away anything about myself, and it won't conflict with any strategy I might decide on later. If I furrow my brows a bit, I might even look intimidating. I'm no wimpy guy, especially not with the thick mess of black hair hanging into my eyes. If only I can convince those sponsors that I have a fighting chance.

When I face the crowd I make sure that they can't read behind my eyes, which are narrowed in what I hope looks like a threat. The only problem with my disguise is that my pupils are flicking back and forth much too rapidly, searching the crowd's faces. Now that I'm standing here, the theme of the Quell is front and center in my mind. Why didn't I figure it out when I had all of these faces to confer with? Now I'm alone, and all I get from them are sad looks. I still don't know what will be facing me in that arena.

"Hey, scary guy," my district partner snorts under her breath, reaching forward to forcefully grab my hand and shake it.

I slowly pivot to return the shake, numb until I realize that she's just made a fool out of me in front of those potential sponsors. Here I am, standing like an idiot, while this girl makes me the laughingstock of District 7. I shoot her a look of real disgust, though it's hard to lower my brows any further than they've already slipped down.

I probably shouldn't be wasting my energy on this girl, but I do it anyway. I don't think I've ever seen her before, though she's certainly a plowing girl by the look of those biceps. In District 7, girls get the choice that boys don't. Girls that don't think that they can hold out under the physical exertion of plowing choose to work at the paper mills rather than plow with the rest of the boys.

Her bangs are cut at a ridiculous angle, choppy and black and hanging into her eyes on a diagonal slope. I think she's got her mane – the only word I can think of to describe it – pulled back into a pony tail, but with all the loose hair it's hard to tell. I notice with uneasy clarity that her mouth is moving back and forth – wait – eating something? This girl is chewing on something in the middle of the Reaping, and she looks perfectly calm about it. In fact, there's something in her gaze that makes her look like she's relaxed like this all the time. Too cocky.

She smirks, but doesn't say anything else because our escort is already bulldozing through the end of her speech.

I look away, returning to crowd searching. I remember my parents then, and Rom. Where are they? Trying not to reveal my desperation, I pinpoint their faces in the crowd. Rom has his fist blocking his mouth and is biting down on it in horror, a trait I've always teased him for. With his eyes creased like that, he still looks like a mouse.

My mother and father stand in the back. I can see the top of my mother's blonde head as she doubles over, sobbing recklessly. He pats her back but looks at me instead, shooting me a gaze that gravely tells me to win. I get choked up thinking that this year our ratty couch will be one person short to watch the Games.

Nothing will ever be ok again.

I grit my teeth, violently shoving my hair out of my eyes. Damnit, I swear that I'm going to hack it all off. I almost want to rip it out with my hands right now, but that's a sure sign of insanity that the sponsors probably wouldn't like.

We tributes can't just stand here forever, and it isn't long before the speech has been wrapped up tidily. As we're approached by faceless Peacekeepers that I don't recognize, another wave of fear kicks in. I don't want to move, because moving means getting farther away from my District. It means accepting my fate. It makes this real. The crowd is dissipating, though, and there's no one left to stand in front of. I've already made a fool out of myself once today, anyway.

I notice immediately that no one's talking to me. The peacekeepers don't touch me but they keep close, herding me forward. I have two, and my district partner – whose name I don't remember – has two of her own that lead her in the opposite direction. It's this separation that reminds me of the Quell again. I guess I was allowed to be reaped alongside her, but now that this formality is over I won't be seeing her again. I wish now that I'd remember her name – as if that would give me an advantage. All I know about her is that she's cocky and a smart-ass.

As we walk, I forget all about my budding strategy and start thinking about what I'll say to everyone who comes to visit me. For Rom, I'll tell a joke about his girls to keep him on his feet. I don't want him sniffling all over me. My throat closes, even at the light-hearted thought. Those will be the _last words _I ever say to him. That's what he'll remember me for. It's too hard to think about me being only the memory of what I tell my friends today. I want to be more substantial than any last words.

Light panic charges my veins as the peacekeepers lead me nowhere near the Justice Building. Instead, we're heading for the train. Surely they haven't forgotten the way the Games work. This may be their 150th year of terror, but the Games have never changed. Each one has a set structure. Goodbyes are a part of them.

"What's going on?" I demand to the guy on the right, a harsh whip in my voice. I sound intimidating, which seems to be a recurring theme of the day. It's just the tone I want.

Unfortunately, he's unimpressed. "You know the theme of the Quell. We're carrying out orders." His voice is as flat as the president's.

Yeah, I'm aware of the theme, but that has nothing to do with goodbyes. My dread thickens as we don't change course. It seems that the president is making the theme what he wants it to be. Allow us to be reaped alongside our fellow tributes, even talk to peacekeepers, but not to see our families before we leave. I bite the inside of my cheek hard as I grit my teeth in anger. Blood fills my mouth, salty and metallic, but I don't want to swallow it. It reminds me too much of what I'll face in the arena, so I brazenly turn and spit it into the grass, barely missing the white pant leg of the peacekeeper on the right.

It would have felt good to screw up that perfection, but the resulting blow from the peacekeeper probably wouldn't have felt as nice.

They don't acknowledge me in any way but lead me right up to the platform and wait for me to enter. They don't usher me in so I hesitate for a moment, breathing deep the District 7 smell. It's all happening much too fast for me to comprehend, so instead I settle for inhaling a wheezing breath and flicking my eyes around restlessly. I'm trying to make memories that I can cling to during the Hunger Games, even if I still haven't come to terms with my death yet.

Eventually, though, spurred on by the impatient looks from the peacekeepers, I step inside and listen to the door slam hastily behind me. They obviously couldn't wait to get rid of me.

My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord and I slump back against the door, too sick to stand. Why didn't I see this coming? Why didn't I suck in every breath I could this week? Why didn't I tell Rom how much I appreciated his stupidity? Why didn't I look up at a massive oak and see it for more than another part of my quota filled? Why didn't I live more than I did? Every breath I take from today until the end of my life will be tainted by the Capitol.

Someone's touching me. Prodding me, actually, with something distinctly cold and sharp. "Can someone move him for me?" The voice is quiet, muted, but it's not kind like I had expected such a soft voice to be. He sounds rather irritated and impatient.

My eyes fly open, instinctively narrowing with a flash-fire of temper. Who's touching me when I've barely had time to settle in? The train hasn't even started moving yet.

What I see jars me with surprise. I had expected no one to be on this train with me but Avoxes and Peacekeepers because of the Quell theme. Who's standing in front of me, though, is unmistakably a doctor. It's almost comical how stereotypical he looks, complete with the stethoscope hanging around his neck. But the mousy frown on his face is not like the face of the gentle apothecary healer that travels around District 7. It shocks me again when I see the resemblance to Rom. His face is pinched, small, and definitely like a rodent's.

"Who are you?" My voice is hoarser than I thought it would be, raspy with tears I'd never cry.

He frowns back. "Move him, please." It takes me a moment to realize that he's not talking to me.

"Would you like us to sedate him first, sir?" A peacekeeper pipes up behind the doctor. His words send me reeling in fear, then anger. They think they're going to _sedate me? _I've barely gotten my feet under me! I'm going into the damn Hunger Games, and they think they're going to start prodding around on me?

I shove forward, knocking the doctor out of the way. I'm surprised at myself for a minute and immediately uneasy, because the action was obviously a mistake. The peacekeepers discreetly raise hypodermics and shuffle closer to me.

I can feel my nose wrinkle into a literal snarl, and I'm sure I look positively feral. "Get off me!" I growl, though none of them are technically touching me, and fling out an arm to hopefully sweep the needles away. Even as I swing, sickness settles in the pit of my stomach. What am I getting myself into? They're obviously going to overpower me whatever I do. I wish fervently that I had just tried to reason with them, because I'm most likely going to end up dead now.

Just as my arm connects with the peacekeepers' arms, someone delivers a swift blow to my temple, making me stagger back and slip down the wall, unable to keep my footing. The world spins. Damn, they had a good hand. I can see the needles through bleary eyes, winking slowly in the fluorescent train lighting. _Please don't stick me, _I think weakly. I know for sure that I don't want to be unconscious for whatever this fight is, because I'll most likely never wake up. I've never been afraid of medical officers, but I've never seen a real one like this and never had the misfortune of being drugged. The idea of being out of control of my own body terrifies me. I can't fight while I'm asleep.

And I can't fight when my head is swimming like this, I soon find as with little effort the peacekeepers hold me down and slide in the hypodermic. My brain doesn't even register the bite of the needle with all of the pure panic swamping me. _Stay awake. I will stay awake! _I roar, but I can't find my hands anymore with the drugs taking possession of my body.

I've never been so scared before in my life. My throat closes up for the second time today as I choke on terror and rapidly spiral downwards into a dark pit that I've never seen before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Shorter chapter coming up, but I hope you'll still like it. :) You finally get to meet Arden's "tribute from a previous Hunger Games." *Cough cough*Drop a review if you've managed to get this far into the story!**

_Boats? Where's my boat…mom?_

_There are boats bobbing against the sand, brittle wooden bones holding up skin tarps that have been gnawed on by the wind animals._

_You promised me we'd build a boat that didn't run on dust and choke and hunger._

_You promised me an ocean?_

_There's none…just black and no water and…we were going to run away. Run away on a boat, remember? You told me we wouldn't play._

_Mom, did I win?_

_You said I didn't have to play. I wouldn't even have to swim because we'd have a boat to carry us everywhere._

_Mom, I can't find my eyes. I can't see our boat! Mom, mom, faster, because they're going to make me play if you don't find our boat .Mom? Where'd you go? I'm still waiting right here! You didn't take our boat without me, right? Mom! Mom! Mom! Please don't leave me here! Mom! Please come back, Mom, these games are too hard! Mom, you left me in the water and I can't swim without our boat._

**xxxx**

I haven't disappeared. I know that I should be relieved, but I can't seem to find any of my emotions. I'm completely disjointed, unable to feel any of my limbs or see anything. For a moment I'm scared that I've disappeared after all, but after a second's recollection I know that's not right. I was drugged. Some doctor stuck me with a hypodermic full of who-knew-what. I'm just hazy, that's all. I'll come to in a minute, I'm sure.

I struggle inside my own head, urging my eyes to open or my legs to move. It can't be that hard – it's my body, and as far as I know it's not damaged or anything. I can hear exactly what Rom would be saying if he were here – _move your butt, Arden. _Then he'd flash me a goofy mouse grin and I'd have to endure him laughing at his own lame joke.

For some reason the thought doesn't reassure me. I can feel my emotions floating, just out of reach, and realize I'm not completely back in my head yet. They must have given me one hell of a dose if I'm this muddled. Not to mention that I keep getting flickers of emotions that aren't mine. Startlingly desolate waves of emotion roll over me, mixed with bursts of childish fear. And something about a boat. I'm starting to doubt my sanity with the crazy mix of thoughts battling inside my own head.

"Administer the IV again, please." I finally hear something – an irritated voice that I can vaguely place. After a minute of another round of drugs coursing through my system, I finally get to feel things again. My entire body is tingling, and not in a good way. The doctors are talking again, but their voices are muffled. I feel like I have cotton in my ears, and it's irritating me that I can't figure out what they're saying.

"Get up already," someone with a deeper voice grumbles. The challenge makes me fight harder against the drugs, finding my sticky eyes in the sea of disembodied limbs that make up my body. _Open._ And, obediently, they do. My body's not used to disobeying me, and I'm not going to let it start now.

Yep, it's the doctors again, with a couple new assistants hovering behind the main rat. "Hey," one of the assistants grins triumphantly, "he listened to me!" It makes me regret opening my eyes.

"Shut up," the doctor who attacked me hisses, and that assistant retreats back to some other part of the…train? Yeah, we're on a train. Some annoying part of my brain keeps insisting that I'm drowning.

"How do you feel, Arden Wade?" The doctor asks me with a snake-like sneer biting at the ends of his words. It makes me want to spit in his face, but I can't do that without getting drugged again, so I simply glare at him. I hate this man for doing that to me. I hate him for making me feel the terror that I've been pushing down my entire life. I've never, ever given into fear like that, and I feel disgusted from the battle that I lose with myself.

He looks at me consideringly for a second and I think that he's going to press on, but he shrugs and leaves. "I'll come visit you in a little while, when you've figured it out."

"Figured what out?" I finally spit back at him, unable to maintain my stony silence when he's taunting me like that. But he doesn't answer and only strides through the door, letting it swing closed behind him. I get the feeling that my doctor has just won again.

Screw this. He hasn't tied me down to whatever bed I'm on, so I'm getting up and taking control of this situation. As I crane my neck to look around I find that I'm still on the train, with a blurry-paned window revealing the outdoor world rushing by. The room I'm in is tiled and white, so clean that my eyes are unfocused for a minute at the brightness. It's hard to take it all in because it's a far cry from the dirty, smoky forest I work in.

_Worked_ in. Before I got shipped here and landed at the mercy of that rat.

As I stand, my legs wobble unsteadily. Gritting my teeth and sweeping my hair back, I clutch at the wall to keep my footing. I've never been on something that moves this fast, or recovered from this many drugs in my system. It's no surprise that I'm falling all over the place.

But that doesn't matter. I'm going to get out of this room, confront that doctor and then, what, win the Hunger Games? Yes. That's what I'll do. Face masked with determination, I slide along the wall-

_I'm alive…?_

The voice comes to me through an ocean of tree sap, slow and unsure of itself.

_I can see stuff again. Where am I? Mom, mom? Mom! This isn't the ocean at all! No, there is no boat. That's right. I was dark – it was dark – and now it's white and I'm standing and—_

The voice rages on, and slowly I feel the puzzle pieces churning together.

I'm not insane, I know that for sure, and I've been off drugs long enough that I shouldn't have two of me speaking in my head.

I'm going to be sick.

"Get out of my _head!"_ I scream, my voice rising to a pitch I've never heard before, leaving dry pain in my throat that makes my voice rasp on every note.

"Get out of me! Get out!" The shriek is now a roar, deep and feral. I spin towards the door, fighting not to throw up. My eyes cloud over then and I can't see, so instead of fumbling with the door knob I round on a glittering surgical table. I smash into it, overturning it and flinging it as far as I can across the room. A thousand surgical tools bite into me, but I can't feel the blood streaming down my wrist.

"Get out! Get out! Get out!" I'm snarling, incoherent, but I can't stop fighting what's inside of me. Next I turn on a plain square mirror in the back of the room, hammering my fist into it and earning myself a shower of broken glass that rains down on me. I faintly feel something cutting into my cheek. My fists keep swinging, but they're not connecting with anything anymore. At least, not until I accidentally slam my forehead into the door that I can't see anymore because of the panic that's making me wild.

I topple backwards, landing on my back hard and then curling in on myself. My hands are claws now, ripping at my own hair as if it was the source of the problem. I see red, and it's not just from my eyes, which don't work right anymore. Blood stains the floor, and I know that it's mine. My fingers are coated with sticky redness and my own tufts of hair. I can't feel my body anymore, and I know that it's because it has gone into shock with all of the self-inflicted injuries.

I see winking, and I realize that it's from the mirror shards scattered across the floor. Shaking, I reach out and grab one unsteadily, squeezing until the edges cut far into my hand's tissue and muscle. I watch, dazed, as my hand shakes so hard that the glass is flung away and I'm left to see blood trickle down onto the tiles.

_Please...please don't get rid of me_. The voice is crying now, each word interrupted by hiccups and sobs. I realize dully that the voice is a child's, and that it sounds absolutely petrified. Of me. But I don't care. There's a _thing _inside my head, eating me. I slowly clutch at the air, stiff fingers curling in and uncurling. My eyes are fading fast again, leaving me with a gray impression of the world. I watch, fascinated, as I try to reach for another piece of glass but shake too hard to grab it.

But I'm not done breaking this room. This is where I'll start. I'll shatter everything and soon enough I'll be strong enough to break what's in my head.

_Please don't hurt me, _the voice garbles again in my head. I ignore it and search blindly for the leg of the surgical bed I had been laying on. Once I'm clutching it weakly, I drag myself forward. Where's something else I can ruin? Where's something I can crush? All I find when I fling my hand out is a couple of unyielding wooden cabinets. I can't keep my eyes open. Maybe if I just pull my body up higher…I can fix this…

The door opens, and I can't even wrench my head around to confirm that it's the rat doctor. I hear him laugh softly, and I know what he must see. Me, curled around myself on the floor, one hand outstretched to find something else to smash. The room has been completely torn apart, and what was once pristine is now colored with my blood and tufts of the hair I ripped out. I don't even bother to hide the tears staining my face, tears I promised myself I'd never shed. Because it doesn't matter now. This rat has been inside of my head – there's nothing to hide from him anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm back. Again. In fact, all of my lovely reviewers have spurred me to write up to chapter 6, so updates will still be coming fast. :) Thanks for that. So, without further ado, chapter 4. Thanks for hanging in this far. ;)**

I'm lying in my own blood, completely disoriented, but I think I know what's coming next. I've known this rat long enough to understand how much he likes to use sedatives. I'm sure he's about to come at me with a hypodermic and put me out of my misery, at least temporarily. And I want him to. Before, I was terrified at the notion of someone forcefully making me lose consciousness. Now I just want to go to sleep. I want to be knocked out so that I don't have to deal with this new horror. I don't want to have to tell myself that _yes ,they've put someone in your head._

There's someone in my head.

I don't want to have to ask myself the desperate questions: How'd they put it there? What is it? Can it read my mind? Can it feel what I feel? Can it…take control of me? Why'd they do it?

_Can I get rid of it?_

I just want to disappear for a while. Maybe this was all just a cruel joke, and they'll take it out after having the satisfaction of watching me break down. I wait expectantly, unable to lift my head to check whether or not the rat is coming towards me. He's still laughing, I think, so I hazily study the splattered tile underneath my cheek. _It's gonna take a lot of work to clean this mess up…_I think groggily. _Poor cleaning guy._

I hear the door close. I still can't bring myself to move, so I just wait patiently for the needle's sting. After a minute, though, it becomes apparent that something is off. I have to figure out what's going on. Unfortunately, I'll have to figure out how to move first.

I'm already lying on my stomach, so I thankfully don't have to roll over. When I try to gather my hands under me to push myself up, though, waves of pain strike me angrily across the temple. I'd forgotten that I'd bashed my head against just about everything in this room. I still myself, waiting for the pain to pass, but it just intensifies as my entire body begins to shake again. I wonder vaguely if it's because I've lost so much blood, then I promptly retch my breakfast out on the floor beside me. I did more damage than I knew about, and I'm finally coming out of the pain-free shock stage.

Where's that rat? He's the only one that can fix me up. I need him and his needles badly, I realize as more spots of pain reveal themselves. My head feels broken, and I can feel every place on my scalp where I tore out clumps of hair. My hands are practically useless, covered in blood and gouged into by glass, with some splinters still buried deep in my palms. I believe I might have broken a finger during all the punching. I know there are also numerous gashes where the surgical tools and glass hit me, but I can't find them in the storm of pain and nausea rolling across me.

Why can't I get up? Every time I try to lift my head the world spins, causing me to dry retch. When I finally do turn my head around to find the door, I'm only half-surprised to find the rat missing. He's gone. No one else is in the room with me.

They've left me here to rot, I realize bitterly. It's almost funny, but I don't quite understand. Did they just want me to bleed out right here, before the Games even started? Don't they need me as a tribute?

They probably think it's going to make me lose it. I've forgotten about the thing in my head in the wake of all this new pain, but there's still that to consider. As far as they know, I've already gone insane. Judging by the condition I'm in, wrapped in a ball on the floor, I'm not so sure that I haven't. What would be more entertaining than locking me in here and watching me go completely wild? And when I finally emerged at the Capitol, I would have been stewing in my insanity for hours. That would completely destroy my chances for sponsors and put on quite a show for the Capitol people.

Screw that, I think venomously, though the words have no bite. I'm too weak to sound very intimidating. I'm going to fix this right now, before any of this leads to my ruin. That _thing _in my head is only a voice. It can't hurt me, because as far as I can tell, I'm still _me. _Just with an interloper added on.

If this is a war, I'm going to win.

_Don't say a word, _I snarl inwardly. _Don't. _I hope it hears me, because I mean it. I remember something it said earlier – begging me not to hurt it. _Or I'll kill you._

It probably doesn't know that I still haven't found out how to get rid of it. It doesn't answer, so I assume I got the point across. _This is my head._

It's surprisingly easy to push it out of my thoughts now that it's no longer messing with them. Good – mental battle won. Now I just have to figure out how to stand up. The physical fight is harder, I soon find. I'm physically wrecked, shaking with every movement and still losing a lot of blood. I must have done some internal damage to my head, because I keep tipping over every time I move around. Regardless, soon I'm crouching and wearily looking around the room.

If I look anything like this trashed room, I'm screwed. Still, after several failed attempts, I'm standing with the help of the wall, which I lean on heavily. My vision's still not completely cleared, but I can see myself more clearly now. Where's that sink I saw earlier? Moving carefully, desperate not to fall over, I inch over to it. It's some weird surgical sink, plated with chrome and covered in various utensils, but I manage to figure out how to turn it on anyway. I plunge my arms in, watching weakly as the wounds begin to clear up. My arms are salvageable, just scratched up. My hands, however…I'm not sure how I'm able to move my fingers at all. I look like I got caught in one of District 7's chain saws.

As I fumble with a roll of bandages I found littering the floor, I realize how stupid it was to injure myself like this. I'd forgotten totally about the Hunger Games in the aftermath of waking up, but I'm still going into them. And I won't win if I can't stand up straight. I can't even wrap a bandage over my cuts.

I should have been preparing! I should have been snooping around the train, trying to find a TV or something, even though I'm not allowed to watch the Reapings. I should have been downing every snack I could find, too, judging by the rumbles echoing through my belly.

Angrily now, I force the white gauze clumsily over the gashes and tie it firmly on. I plunge my head into the sink next, clearing the blood out of my ratty hair and off of my face. There's one cut on my cheek, as far as I can tell, and thick clumps of bruises all over my forehead, but no other visual damage. Everything else is minor, so I leave those scrapes alone and begin to explore the room for anything else that would be useful.

No painkillers, which was what I really wanted, but I did find a cache of odd items that I had never seen before. I decide to leave those alone, just in case they could hurt me. With a sigh, I thump down on the bed, which has rolled to the corner of the room after all of my raging. If I can just keep my head in check until they come get me, I'll be the most impressive tribute in these Games.

_The Quell theme, _I think with a groan. Of course I'd understand it now, when I'm halfway to the Capitol in a train room filled with blood. I know what "former tribute" means now. That's what's in my head. She's a tribute from some other Hunger Games.

I almost don't want to admit it, because that means that she's an actual person. If I admit to myself that she was a real person once, I can't keep calling her a "thing." It makes the battle with her that much harder to win.

The president is more twisted than I thought. He has ordered that dead people be put into our heads. I didn't even know that that was possible, let alone that it would happen to me. And the "former tributes" are supposed to help us. Hah. Passing them off as a replacement for mentors is just an excuse to drive all the tributes crazy this year. How are any of us supposed to fight each other when we're busy fighting off demons in our own heads?

Thinking this, though, reminds me that I'm not alone. There are 23 other kids in their own trains right now, facing the same problems as me. In fact, my district partner may even be somewhere else on this train. Even though it disgusts me to feel any sense of fellowship with kids that want to kill me, it's a little comforting to know that the Capitol hasn't singled me out. I was just a name that was drawn. It's nothing personal, and all these other kids are the same way. It binds us together. Sort of.

I get up, wobbly momentarily but soon adjusting to the movement of the train. I reach for the door, forgetting that it's locked, and nearly fall through the opening when the door easily swings open. Wait, didn't the rat lock it? Why would he leave me unattended in a room that wasn't even locked? It makes me suspicious, but I push into the train's hallway anyway.

No one is there, but that's what I expected. We're supposed to be isolated. I wander down the cavernous hall, blown away by the rich red carpet and the thick tapestries making the walls into carpets. I've never seen anything like this, and I find myself in awe despite my terrible circumstances. I'm about to turn into another tunnel when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

An Avox stands there, sleek and manicured. I'm taken aback, and nearly run into him when I turn around. I didn't expect Avoxes to look so…clean. He doesn't look happy, but he sure does look like he's had an easy life. By looking at him, you'd think that he was just a very down-to-earth Capitol citizen. I know better, though, when I see the extra effort he takes to swallow.

He motions for me to follow him, just as a clipped voice announces over the intercom that we will be arriving in the Capitol in only an hour, and that the time is 9 AM. I didn't know that it was already morning again. Whatever they did to put her – it – in my head must have taken a while.

The Avox leads me to what is unmistakably a dining room, but the eight or so chairs are empty. I feel queasy when I think that countless mentors and tributes have sat here, conferring on strategies and angles. I don't get that. I sit down anyway, drumming my fingers restlessly on the table and wincing when I remember that, bandaged or not, my fingers still hurt. In an hour I will be in the Capitol, which is where I will face the flocks of oddly-colored people calling for my death. I won't be dying there, but it's only a short train ride from the Capitol to my arena.

The lavish meal the Avox returns with makes me think that maybe more people will be arriving to eat with me. Surely I'm not expected to eat all of this. Though my family eats well, I've never even seen so much food in one place. I feel sick thinking about home, and I wish they had just brought me the simple District 7 fare. That would comfort the tributes more than all of this. I don't even know what this is.

I dig in anyway, sampling everything that I can fit inside of me. I don't even get to try everything. I drop the fork several times, unable to hold it with my bandaged hands, but it doesn't bother me that several pieces of food now stain my bandages. I'll get to take a shower eventually.

The rat doesn't reappear even an hour later, when the train slows to a halt and the same Avox urges me out of the door. I hesitate in the door frame, unwilling to step off onto Capitol ground. I don't even know if what I'll be stepping onto is ground or some strange Capitol material. I blink against the sunlight, staring straight down into the faces of a cache of guards.

_I could help you_, a voice whispers, catching me off guard. _I've been in the Games, and—_

_Shut up! _I rage, wishing that there was something physical I could hit. It seems that I haven't quite quelled the voice I'm hearing, but it retreats at the burst of fiery anger I send in its direction. _Shut up. Shut up._

I get no reply, and that brings a grim smile to my face. I'll find my own way.


	5. Chapter 5

**So…this one is a bit of a filler with a lot of angry Arden thrown in. :) Things will get exciting again, I promise. A HUGE thanks to all of my reviewers. You're what's keeping this story going.**

_I'm so alone._

It was an ironic thought because I could feel the girl sitting meekly in the back of my head, silent after her violently refused offer of help. She wasn't good company, though. In fact, it made me feel more alone than ever to know that that parasite was the only person that I would get to talk to for the next three weeks. And no way in hell was I going to converse with a voice inside my own head.

Just thinking about her makes my skin crawl. I rub my arms furiously, willing away the goosebumps. Sometimes I can forget that I've been invaded because she's so quiet, like she's trying to make herself as small as possible to appease me, but I can't forget what those doctors did to me when I look down at my hastily bandaged hands.

At first, I'd have to run to one of the glittery hotel bathrooms every time I'd see my hands and expel my lunch into the toilet bowl. It still makes me sick to think of her up there. My hotel room even sports several broken objects from when it would overwhelm me and I'd start hitting things. But now, with a day of living with her behind me, my emotions are slowly changing.

Or rather, I'm changing them because her ability to have me retch out my guts every time I think of her is not good. In this state, I'll never survive the Games. Instead, I'm making my head into a battlefield, not a place where I'll run and hide from this specter. She's there, and I can't do anything about that at the moment. So I'll tie her up as tightly as I can and go on as normally as possible. I won't let her make me lose these Games. I'm stronger than her. I'm actually real. She can't hurt me.

A grim smile creeps across my face. She's terrified of me, that much I know. I can't say I blame her, with all of the waves of blistering anger I've been sending in her way. I'm furious with her for latching onto the inside of my head, and she knows it. But she must not know that I can't really hurt her. Until she finds that out, I can keep her under control.

**xxxx **

_I know he can't hurt me. I can hear him. But that doesn't mean he won't die out there. I don't want to die again. Please don't die. Please don't die. It's too dark when you die. Please don't let me disappear._

**xxxx **

The Avoxes around here are helpful, directing me where I can go during my stay in the Capitol and where I should be at what times, but they can't talk to me and I can't talk to them. I almost wish I at least had my obnoxious district partner to talk to, and it has only been a day since I left District 7. If I stay this lonely, I'll be weeping about my family by this evening. For some reason, this thought annoys me and I get up to take a tour of my room again.

I still haven't showered, so I gingerly peel back the bandages so that I can. Ugly, raw wounds greet me. Obviously a bit of tap water and some bandages was not enough to keep them under control. In fact, they hurt more today than yesterday. The ones on my arms are manageable, but my hands are beyond salvageable. Gritting my teeth, I strip down and plunge into the shower. I've never used one of these before, and it sure beats rain or a dirty forest pond. Once I find the simple water switch I leave it on that, wary of the multitude of bright buttons littering the control panel. It's hard to hold onto the soap, and blood that hasn't clotted slicks the pale green surface. I still manage myself to get clean and then step out, dripping and bleeding.

Ow. But it's not the worst pain I've ever experienced, so I survey the blood logically. The bandages, which I dropped unceremoniously to the floor, are black with crusty blood. I don't want to tie those on. And the cuts already look like they're getting infected.

Damnit. I shoulder my way out of the bathroom, reluctant to use my hands, and nearly forget my clothes in my haste. I'm still sloshing water around as I burst out of my room, hair soaked and shirt clinging to my body. Where are those helpful Avoxes? Surely there must be a way to fix this. I'm in a huge hotel; it should have some bandages.

When I spot a tiny guy at the end of my level's hallway, I sprint towards him. "Hey," I call out, grabbing his shoulder accidentally to keep him from walking away from me. Blood soaks his shirt and I recoil, hand stinging.

"Listen," I pant, out of breath from the mad scramble to get out of the bathroom and track down an Avox. "My hands," I begin awkwardly, showing them to him. "Is there any way to, uh, fix this?"

He looks at them slowly before looking back at me. He squints, obviously thinking, before gesturing for me to follow him. He looks uncertain, as if this might not be allowed, but he obviously doesn't want to be in charge of cleaning up the blood I'm spattering the carpet with. I trot after him, invigorated after my mad dash. He looks at me oddly, like he's wondering why I'm bouncing up and down while we walk, and keeps glancing nervously at his bloody shoulder.

He stops in front of the elevator and pushes a button to open it. My curiosity sparks. When I was escorted into this hotel, I was whisked past the first couple of levels. I suspected that it was because the other tributes were being housed down there. If I could catch a glance of one of them, maybe it'd give me an edge that the others don't have.

The Avox hits the button for the lobby and we whoosh downwards, making my stomach tingle in delighted surprise. The rush of being 50 feet up in an old oak doesn't compare to this. As we descend, I think to myself that this elevator ride proves how much freedom I've been given. I simply waltzed up to an Avox and now I'm heading down to the lobby. I could even escape, maybe, if I tried hard enough. The idea sends a buzz through my head and I have to force the new urge down. I'd just get killed.

It turns out that it wouldn't be so easy, anyway. Each floor is monitored by two peacekeepers at the elevator entrance, and when we step out we are immediately latched onto by them.

"Isn't this a tribute?" One of them demands, taking a hold of my shoulder. I struggle, trying to get free, but he only holds tighter. The Avox, looking terrified, nods. He points to my hands frantically, and I feel compelled to explain before he gets in trouble. "I hurt my hands. I wanted to know if I could get them fixed."

The peacekeeper stares me down. "Really?" He asks.

I nod slowly. Does he think I'm trying to escape by lying about my _hands? _It was ridiculous to even think about escape. These guys are paranoid.

He chews on his lip absently as he studies me. "Follow me," he finally says, grabbing my wrist roughly to steer me away from the Avox and down a different hallway branching off from the lobby. He summons a couple of other peacekeepers to confer with and establish that this is allowed before all four of the guys drag me down the hall to a system of complicated doors that I could never find my way out of. I keep trying to yank my wrist free, but the peacekeepers are flanking me and are unwilling to release me for the sake of my pride.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Pushing my hair back with my free hand, I study the squadron of doors. I have no idea what is behind them, but they make me think that this place is more than a hotel. Especially if they plan on patching me up somewhere in here.

"In here," one peacekeeper growls and shoves me into an open door. I flounder for a minute, one hand still trapped in the grip of another peacekeeper, until he releases me and I stagger forward.

A lone doctor looks up at my clumsy entrance, eyes wide. He's young, obviously new at this, and has dyed his hair a startling black. His eyebrows are still a snowy blonde. "What is it?" He asks. His voice is surprisingly deep for his stringy stature.

"This tribute injured his hands and wants them fixed before the Games," a peacekeeper says stoutly.

"Ah," the doctor says. I feel uneasy when he looks at me with his huge eyes. I think I have a permanent phobia of medical people now, even if this one hasn't attacked me with a dead child. "Bring him over here," he says, returning to whatever he was looking at before. I walk towards him before the peacekeepers can move me for him. What, does this doctor think that I can't move myself around?

When I reach him, he promptly grabs my wrist and inspects my hand. I nearly bite him. I feel like I'm back in the woods with touchy Rom by the way all of these Capitol people keep grabbing me. He must notice my unease, but he only holds on tighter. "What'd he do?" He asks absently. When no one answers him he just shrugs and reaches for a set of tweezers on his table. "You still have glass in here," he tells me and creates a short slit in my palm

I nearly yelp. The skin he cuts into is swollen and tender, definitely not ready to be chewed into by the scalpel. My hand twitches in an automatic reflex to push my hair back and the doctor must take it the wrong way because he asks whether or not I'll need a local sedative. I know he just means to numb my hands before he fixes them, but the use of a sedative is a sensitive topic.

"No!" I bark, ripping my hand back defensively. The scalpel drags along my palm, creating a thin scratch. I growl audibly at the new pain, but ignore it.

He blinks, clearly confused. "Alright." His voice is slow, like he's talking to a child. I don't let it bother me. I can hear the peacekeepers shuffling in the background, alarmed at my volatile reaction.

"Just fix it." I thrust my hand back into his face, clenching it into a loose fist. I meant for that to look intimidating, but it only makes the blood run faster. He peels my fingers back, looking, if anything, irritated.

"I will, if you'll hold still." I shut up and hold my hands out for him while he goes to work. I don't watch, but I feel a lot of biting and tugging on his end. He pours some stinging liquid over them as well, making me wince and nearly pull my hands back again. When I get my hands back to myself I'm not letting anyone touch them ever again.

"Here. I'm done." The doctor's tone is clipped, and I get the feeling that I was not a pleasant patient to deal with. I clutch my hands to my chest, trying not to grumble to myself about strangers touching them. All of the blood is gone, and neat black stitches have closed all of the cuts. I can move them again with only little resistance.

"It's the best I can do with my limited supplies." I nod briskly and try to move away, but he drags me back by my shirt sleeve. "I'm not done yet!" He snaps. I keep my hands protectively held to my chest. "Your arms," he grumbles. "They're still not cleaned up."

I reluctantly hold my arms out and he quickly cleans the cuts up, pouring more of the stinging liquid over them and wrapping them in sterile cloth. I get the feeling that he's eager to get rid of me. "There. Go."

I hurry out of the room, stuffing my hands gently into my pockets so that the peacekeepers can't grab them. They follow me closely – I can even feel their breath on my neck. When we arrive back at my room they deposit me inside and walk back to the elevator. The hallway is empty except for their steps, which echo through the building. There's only one door on my level, I notice, and that's the one to my room. I guess nothing else really is on my floor. Each tribute must get their own level.

"Tribute," one peacekeeper adds over his shoulder, "you're expected to be ready to leave by seven tonight, for the chariot ride. An Avox will be here in an hour to take you to the warehouse, where you will design your costume."

He disappears, leaving me hollow and nervous. I'd forgotten about the chariot ride, and not having a stylist to handle it for me. Am I really expected to design a costume? And do I have to make it myself? My life hangs in the balance over this night, which will be full of prospective sponsors. And I don't know the first thing about a good costume. I don't even have my angle yet.

When I brush my hair back, frustrated, I feel something tug. I look down to study the neat rows of stitches, which must have caught on my hair, and itchy restlessness makes me want to rip them out. It feels like claustrophobia, which is odd considering that I'm not trapped under anything. As I stuff my hands back into my pockets I think that my unease probably has nothing to do with the stitches. After all, I have plenty of other things to worry about.


	6. Chapter 6

**So, I struggled with this chapter. So much so that I rewrote it three times and I'm still not satisfied with it. I guess I just can't stand chapters without action in them. This chapter was a necessary evil, though, and soon we'll be back to the craziness of the Games.**

What am I going to do now? They've given me an hour before I have to get ready for my first public appearance for the Capitol. I suppose I should be grateful for the time to process things, but I hate to stew in my own confusion. I'd rather be in constant motion without time to think about how, for example, I will be dead in three weeks. Or how the voice in my head has been unusually silent. Or that not knowing about my competition may be more of a disability than I thought.

I don't think I can survive a whole hour.

Maybe I can get something done in the meantime, though. I haven't forgotten how easy it was to waltz down to that weird medical center. There may not be any Avoxes around now, but I might as well get a good handle on my surroundings. If the opportunity for escape presents itself – and the thought is almost too delicate to consider – I want to know what I'm doing.

Confidently, I stride over to the elevator and jam on the button the Avox pushed. There might be guards down at the lobby, but the other floors could be clear. When nothing happens after I push the button I almost shout in frustration. Unthinkingly I kick the door and spend the next three minutes hopping around on one foot. Damn Avox, what did he do to get it working? I fume and lean down to examine the panel to the side of the door. Just one button…and a tiny keyhole. I groan. Apparently I'll be going nowhere.

My high aspirations crash and I stomp back to my room, flinging the door shut after I enter. The resulting crash is loud enough that I think people on other levels may be able to hear it, and I feel satisfied. I'm not seriously considering escape, but maybe if someone comes to investigate I can nab a set of keys…?

Yeah, and that would probably land me in the medical ward, chock full of sedatives. Not again. I'm not going there. Instead, I pace my small room, glancing in every nook and cranny I can find. All I find is a drawer full of clothing that I'm not interested in.

Maybe I _should _start thinking instead of prowling around the room. But it could be constructive thinking, not mind-numbing speculation about when exactly I'll be dying. I could, for instance, start figuring out the costume I've been so worried about making. As a District 7 kid, though, I really only have two options – tree or tree cutter. Maybe I could find some leaves in this "warehouse" and glue them to me or something.

Then again, for 150 years tributes have been shown off in the stupidest costumes and have always blamed their mentors. I have a chance to look better than stupid now, so while my costume will inevitably be lame, I don't want to be a tree.

"Mr. Arden Wade, please report to the corridor." I hear the muffled voices and sit still for a moment, arms crossed, before getting up huffily and yanking the door open.

"Yeah?" I snap, scrutinizing the two peacekeepers with a frown. _Report to the corridor? _What kind of a request is that? Couldn't they have just asked me to come to the door? Or knocked? I'm irrationally irritated just by their stiff manner.

They look unimpressed. "Your time slot in the warehouse is starting now. Follow us." They turn and head back to the elevator, keeping a close eye on me.

"Wait, what?" I ask heatedly, jogging to catch up. "Time slot? How long do I have to design this costume?" I didn't know I'd be sharing this place with the other tributes.

"Two hours," one peacekeeper responds stoutly.

The other one seems to notice my sudden panic and gives me a halfway-sympathetic look. It only angers me more that he's patronizing me. "Don't worry," he says, "you won't be expected to sew anything up. Base outfits and…uh…specialized accessories will be provided for you to choose from." He flashes me a tiny smile, which I don't return.

Ah. So while we won't be provided any stylists, the Capitol doesn't want us to completely bomb the chariot ride. That would only make the crowds restless. They're always on top of their Games, I think bitterly. They've always got control.

I glare at the back of the peacekeepers' heads for the entire walk down to what was aptly described as the warehouse. It's a huge gray building from the outside, even if the inside is divided into a bunch of smaller rooms. It has the same cold feeling as some of the timber warehouses back in 7, too.

"You're in this one," a peacekeeper grunts, opening the door to one of the rooms. I pause in the doorframe, looking uneasily at all the clutter. The room is stuffed with fabric and all sorts of things, some in disarray or littered across the floor. I had expected it to be a lot more organized. It seems odd to me that the Capitol, which always has the situation under control, would leave the tributes with this mess.

"Ah, I'm sorry," a woman at the back of the room says uneasily. She's carrying a wadded bunch of clothes in one hand. "The last tribute made a bit of a mess." She bites her lip. It registers that, if we were going in order, the said tribute would have been my district partner.

She rushes over to help me. "You'll find fabric here," she points, "and paint and other decorating items over there. But you're mostly expected to use the clothing sets here and the…uh…district specific accessories, which are over here." She blushes, looking nervous. "I'm sorry, but this year is a bit unconventional without the stylists. I'm normally a stylist aid. And, uh, they didn't give me anyone to help clean up…" She's muttering to herself now, flustered, as she moves back to her corner of the room.

I almost want to help her. But she's a Capitol woman covered in bright splashes of gold paint and tribal black lines, and that creeps me out. She looks like she'd kill for the opportunity to be back in her normal Hunger Games routine, where she doesn't have to deal with messy tributes, just manicured stylists. In fact, she looks almost nostalgic when she looks around the supply room. I guess leaving tributes to their own "district specific" devices isn't as entertaining as wild costumes designed by real stylists.

I feel her swell in the back of my head as I make my way uncertainly over to the clothing sets. She's nervous, but I can tell that she's fighting the urge to suggest something. It makes me bristle. _Go away, _I warn her. _You're not helpful. _She disappears, sulking, and I feel fierce satisfaction. Try as she might, she can't deceive me by pretending that she cares. She's not even a real person.

**xxxx **

_I only wanted to help._

**xxxx **

I peer into the closet full of "clothing sets," which turn out to be simple pants and shirts so that tributes don't end up being naked for the chariot ride. I guess this is where I'll have to start. I pull on thick black -pants and a dark T-shirt and then stand uncertainly for a minute. I still don't know what I'm doing for this costume, and I get the feeling that I'm probably never going to figure it out.

I'm not getting any sponsors tonight. Groaning, I begin a slow loop around the room, peeking at anything that catches my eye. It's a weirdly colored piece of fabric that makes me stop. As I pull it out I see that it's a mix of browns and greens all painted on in strange splotches. It takes a minute of staring before I figure out what it's supposed to be. It mimics the way colors all blend together in the tree tops of a forest. The more I look at it, the more it reminds me of home.

This is what I want my costume to be like. Not just one tree, but the way that trees look on a windy day with all of their colors blending together. As far as I can remember, no other tributes have done anything like this. I obviously don't have time to make something out of this fabric, though, I remember as I look at the clock hanging lopsided on the wall. I've already wasted 30 minutes.

I shove my hair back with both hands and squeeze my eyes shut angrily. What am I supposed to do? I urgently tear through the closet of District 7 accessories, searching for anything that looks like that piece of fabric.

I hear a long sigh and a muttered, "You're just like your district partner. All of you are wild animals."

I swing to face the woman supervising the room, ready to snap something back at her, but when I see the mess I've made I shut up. The accessories closet is a wreck now. My anger crumples and I stare at her, openmouthed. I should say sorry, but I can't bring myself to say it.

I think she gets it because she rolls her eyes and walks over to me. She doesn't look as freaky now, with her gold paint, when I'm covered in strips of multi-colored fabric and my hair is tangled around my eyes. We both look pretty crazy. "You're looking for more of the camouflage, right?" She says, hands on her hips. She sounds accusatory, but I guess I deserve that.

"Is that what it's called?" I admit reluctantly and drop my wad of fabric back into the closet.

"We don't have any of it. Most stylists don't like it because it looks so fake." She pauses, running a hand through her mane of blonde hair. "But, if you wanted, we could replicate it."

I stare back at her. She's still a Capitol person, so I can't exactly trust her. But she said we, and that almost makes me feel dizzy with relief. I've been so alone that it's messing with my head. The thought that anyone could be on my side is overwhelming and I'm not thinking straight, so I give in.

"How?"

"Paint would be the easiest way." She shrugged, and I could tell that she felt nervous about whatever she was planning. Any help she could give me would be illegal, and the Capitol doesn't spare people just because they're a Capitol citizen. I wait for her to decide whether or not helping me would be worth it. She grabs my chin and tilts my face towards her, studying it. I shrink back, alarmed, before I realize that she's helping me now.

"Face paint," she decides, "and some for your arms." She still looks flighty, looking around suspiciously from time to time, but now her eyes glow with a fierce light. I find it hard to believe that she's only a stylist aid and not one of the manic artists herself. I guess Capitol people have nothing better to fight for than fashion, and this girl is ready to put it all on the line just for that. And for me, I guess.

"Thank you," I say sincerely, hoping she understands just how thankful I am for her help. "And, uh, I can help you clean this up." It's not quite an equal payment for what she'll be doing for me, but it's something.

She actually laughs, throwing her head back and nearly whipping me in the face with her long hair. I have to remind myself not to be annoyed at her. "Don't be silly," she says, re-adjusting her grip on my chin and steering me towards the tall mirror on one wall of the room, "we won't have time for that." She plants me firmly in front of the mirror and dashes off to get something.

I can't help but stare at my reflection. I am cleaner than usual from that shower, and even my newly-fluffy hair is thick enough to hide the missing patches. I look almost normal, but that's not what catches my eye. It's my face that surprises me. I look angry, even though I'm not frowning. Deep lines have formed around my eyebrows and eyes especially, but they aren't the only new lines etched into my darkly tanned skin. I look desperate, like I'm fighting for my life even now, inside this cluttered room.

I turn angrily away, massaging my closed eyes with my fingertips. How terrible I look distresses me, and I wonder what everyone back home will think when they see this new monster on the screen. I'm glad that I'll look more intimidating in the arena, but I hate how permanent these angry lines will be. I just don't look anything like _me. _

When the woman returns she's carrying an armload of brushes and paint. "Now, stand still," she instructs. "I'm going to show you what to do and you're going to have to do the rest." She glances around the room tensely, and I hope fervently that no one shows up to catch her. I could even be punished, so it's not just her that I'm worried about.

"You have terrible skin," she grumbles as she pokes around my face. She swipes my face with a damp washcloth and some strange liquid and stands back to look at me critically. "Did you take a shower this morning?"

"Yes…" I answer slowly, wondering why that was so important.

She rolls her eyes and dips her brush into one of the paint jars. "Now, watch," she says, angling me so that I'm watching her work in the mirror. "You'll have to do this in a little while."

She daintily runs the brush over my skin and I watch as a green smear appears on my cheek. "You'll want to copy the way mine looks exactly. Use mostly green, some brown, and don't be afraid to mix the colors." She works for a minute. "Use only light colors around your eyebrows and eyes – we want them to stand out. You won't look as scary if we can't see those thick bushes." She pokes my eyebrows and I frown. Looking scary is just what I was frustrated about a few minutes ago. "That face exactly," she says with a grin.

She reaches for the yellow and white paint next, which makes me eye her suspiciously. There aren't any white or yellow leaves where I live. "You can't forget to highlight with a bit of light color," she says, noticing my new glare. "I know that the trees in the forest hardly let any light in, but some of it gets through the leaves and dapples the ground, right? I've seen pictures."

I look back at myself in the mirror. She's right – the colors do look more realistic with a bit of highlighting. She has covered my face in delicate swirls of color that look even better than the piece of fabric, though it's clear that they were done by an amateur. It's sloppy and uneven, but I'm glad. That way it's not obvious that I didn't do it.

She steps back to admire her work. "Perfect. Now you have about 30 minutes to do your arms. Don't be afraid if that doesn't look as good as your face – the arms don't matter as much." She steps around me, scurrying off to some other side of the room.

I dip my paint brush in uncertainly and set to work, ignoring the flurry of movements behind me as the woman searches for something. "Here," she finally gasps, coming up behind me. "I found it." She slips a rugged belt around me as I paint, making me jerk in surprise.

"Hey—!" I growl as her movements make my paint brush fly across my skin haphazardly. She ignores my complaint and slips a couple of glinting daggers into the dark belt. I drop my paintbrush and finger the knives, disappointed to find that the edges have been dulled. Still, they look impressive against the dark background of my costume.

I think I'm ready, and time's nearly up. "You know, I don't even know your name," I say.

She smiles. "It's Cirrus. Like the cloud?"

"I guess you already know my name," I reply, and she nods. I stick out a hand to shake before I realize that the paint's still wet. She laughs and knocks my hand away.

"Good luck," she tells me. "Don't smudge the paint before the ride. And don't worry about helping me clean up – I've only got a few more tributes to go."

I nod. "Thanks, Cirrus."

I've already forgotten that she's a Capitol girl in the wake of what she's done for me. We both look pretty silly now, covered in paint, and I think that maybe we aren't so different after all. Unfortunately, I'll be going into the Games while she sits at home and watches. I guess I can only hope that she'll root for me.


	7. Chapter 7

**And here's chapter 7! This chapter, like chapter 6, proved impossible to write, but I got it done anyway. I hope you guys enjoy. :) If you're still around by this point in the story, drop a review.**

There's my chariot. Like most things in 7, it's made out of wood. That doesn't surprise me. It's not the racy mahogany of the President's podium, though. Instead, it's like they've taken a chunk out of the very center of an oak. I'm afraid that the splinters will kill me before the other tributes can. They're obviously playing up the whole tree aspect – fake sap drips down one roughly hewn board, and I can see random twigs sprouting from the cracks. The whole thing looks like a glorified wagon, but it's still not up to the standards of the District 7 wagons. Our wagons aren't complete squares – that would never be aerodynamic enough to work, and it'd be deadweight for our horses to haul. But at least I didn't have to make this chariot like I did my costume.

I try not to look at it because, like all things in the Capitol, it reminds me of how close we're getting to the Hunger Games. I'd self destruct if I tried to process the Games along with everything else. Still, in a matter of minutes they'll be loading me into that thing and I'll be off to a crowd of fans that hopefully won't be too restless after watching 13 other terrible costumes roll by.

Sweat trickles down my forehead and I reach up to brush it away before realizing that I've just smudged Cirrus's careful paint job. Damnit. I guess it doesn't matter, though, since all of this paint was purposely smudged to begin with. I'm too wound up to worry about my costume, anyway.

"Finally got off work," I hear someone behind me say. "I came to see you off."

I twist to look at whoever it is. "Oh," she tsks disgustedly, "you've already smudged your camouflage."

"Cirrus?" A smile – unnatural on my face these days – creeps up on me until I think it through. I don't even know this girl, and it's odd that she feels like coming all the way over here to say goodbye to me.

"Oh, don't look so grumpy. I'm not that bad."

"I don't even know you," I say with a frown. "I have no idea how bad you might be."

"Shut up and get in the chariot, Arden." I almost startle when I hear my name. It has been so long since anyone has bothered to address me as anything but "tribute." I'm so surprised that I let Cirrus herd me over to the chariot.

She waves once as the chariot jerks into motion, and I think to myself that this is probably the last time I'll ever see her. She's the least of my worries, though, when I have a family at home that I miss much more.

I put Cirrus out of my head and clutch the sides of the chariot uneasily as it rolls out of the launch garage and onto the street. It's only when the cheers crescendo that I realize that I have my eyes squeezed tightly shut. That won't win me any fans, so I slowly peel my eyes open.

My chariot is the only one on the street, but by the way these people were shouting you'd think that there was a whole caravan of tributes rolling through. I had no idea, just by watching TV, that these Capitol people were really this loud. It doesn't even matter how good or bad the costume is, though, because they'll scream anyway. These people treat us like celebrities.

I force myself to keep my eyes on them. I want to engage them and I want them to remember me, even with the horrible paint job. I can't keep a scowl off my face, though, and that's what decides on my angle for the Games. Since I can't be anything but surly and angry, that's what I'll have to be. Maybe I can even make myself look intimidating.

The ride is over so quickly that it's anticlimactic. When it's over and the chariot has retreated into the holding garage I can't help but look back at the street, as if it might have never existed. It's still there, of course, but I feel almost disappointed. Only when I see another chariot roll out of the shadows do I perk up and crane my neck to see more. There's another tribute in there somewhere, and I irrationally think that seeing them might give me an edge.

A peacekeeper grabs me roughly by the shirt collar and hauls me back, out of view of the street. "You know the rules," he growls in my ear and I fight free of his grip. He's watching me sharply, so I follow his pointed finger to the other end of the garage, where another group of guards escorts me out of the garage and back to the hotel.

"That's it?" I ask once they push me through the front doors of the hotel lobby. "I ride down the street and go back to my room?" In all the footage I've seen, the tributes are swarmed by stylists and mentors and fans. It always looks pretty dramatic, and this quiet walk back here seems wrong. These Games are unusual, but that doesn't explain this emptiness. Even the lobby is nearly deserted. I feel almost angry that all of this is passing by with little excitement. It's my _death _that we're leading up to. Doesn't that deserve a bit more respect than an empty lobby?

"You will be expected to report to the training center tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon will be the interviews." I feel my stomach drop out from underneath me as he talks. Everything is happening so fast. I don't want to hear what he's going to say next, but I can't stop him. "The next day will be your launch into the arena." I nearly hiss audibly as we make it to my room.

"Right," I mutter and step into my room, slamming the door in their faces. I'm almost disappointed when the peacekeepers don't reprimand me for shutting the door on them. Around here, all the peacekeepers are calm and untouchable. I just want to see some emotion out of them.

I realize as I pivot and look at my room that I haven't actually had a sleep that wasn't drug induced since I arrived in the Capitol. It's late, anyway, and that bed looks really nice. Wearily, I pad over to it and stare at the thick covers. It almost feels like surrender to lose consciousness again, even of my own accord, so I hesitate a moment before climbing in. Soon, though, I lose the battle with exhaustion and clamber into bed without bothering to wipe off the face paint. It's only when I feel something poke my ribs that I remember the knives and toss the belt weakly across the room. I'm already half asleep.

**xxxx **

_He's asleep, but I can't bring myself to shut myself down as well. I don't even know if I have to sleep when he sleeps, but I'm too terrified to try it just in case I don't come back afterwards. I spent too much time in that darkness to ever let myself go again. I'm always clinging to the thread of what I am, even if I don't understand what really happened to me._

_I died. That much I know. In the 29__th__ Hunger Games, I died. For so long I was nothing but a voice floating in a very dark place. Then I woke up 121 years later._

_I don't know why we have to die if we go to such a terribly dark place. It's not fair._

_I see everything he sees and feel everything he feels. Except for when he's asleep. That's when I get a little bit of myself back and I wander the dark places in his head. I even have more control than I thought. I can hear everything he thinks and see all of his memories, but I don't think he can hear me unless I want him to._

_I still wish I was in his place. I don't think I'm that bad to live with. I only ever want to help. Maybe he thinks I'm selfish for wanting to help him so that I can stay alive. Maybe that's why he hates me. But I don't want to die again. The inside of his head is so much better than that dark place. I'm not scared when I'm with him, but the dark place is scary. If he wins the Hunger Games, I get another chance to live._

_Please don't hate me. You don't have to like me, but you're the only person who even knows I'm alive again. It's so lonely up here – I just want someone to care._

**xxxx **

_Arden? Arden?_

Someone's calling my name this early in the morning? Who could even get in my room?

"Yeah?" I mumble groggily, rolling over in my bed. Weak light streams in through the cracks in the hotel window, but it's clearly early-morning sunshine.

_Hi. _The tremulous voice hesitates. _It's Day._

"Yeah, I know it's morning," I grumble irritably and chuck a pillow in the direction of the voice before clumsily rolling out of bed and landing on the floor with a heavy thump. I stand unsteadily, trying to brush sleep and hair out of my eyes so that I can see whoever it is that broke into my room at 6 AM.

_No, it's Day. That's my name? Anyway - _the person rushes on, and I can tell now that the voice is female - _I just had to talk to you. If you'd just give me a chance…I'm really nice, I promise, and I can help you and I know you've been wanting an ally and well…_

I scan the room. The door is closed and everything is in order. There's no one in here. "Wait, where are you?" I ask crossly. So now someone has broken into my room and hidden themselves. I'm not going to play hide and seek with them.

There's a long, embarrassed pause, and my sleep-crusted brain finally wakes up.

"Get out!" I yell savagely, surprising myself. "I told you to leave me alone!" There's nothing in my hotel room for me to smash, but I would break things if I could.

She cries uncontrollably in the back of my head now. _Please…_she blubbers, _don't hate me. Please, I didn't mean to make you mad! I just wanted to talk to you. It's so quiet up here…_

The sound of her sobs is making it hard to think. "Listen," I get out through gritted teeth. "Today, I'm going to go train and get my training score. Then I'm going to go get interviewed. Then I'll be going into the Games. And you aren't going to say another word the entire time. Understood?" I growl.

She hesitates. _Please, stay alive, _she whispers.

"Yeah. I'll keep that in mind," I snarl back, and she disappears.


	8. Chapter 8

**I had to force this chapter out between gritted teeth, but I got it done. Sorry if it seems forced (it was :P) but I just can't wait to get into the arena. Exciting stuff there. Exciting stuff.**

The voice – whose name I refuse to use – has been quiet ever since I forced her away, but that doesn't keep me from being constantly on guard. She has never been as vocal as she was this morning, which makes me wary. What if, next time, I can't shut her up? There's nothing I can _really _do to keep her away from me. She's untouchable.

I should feel grateful that she has been this quiet, but I only feel like I'm not fighting her hard enough. If she's not too scared to challenge me I'm doing something wrong.

I wonder if she's doing this on purpose. Maybe she knows that she only has to pipe up sometimes to make me this paranoid and distracted. I don't think she's that smart, but I could be wrong. Furious, I clench my fists and sweep my mind again just in case she's planning a sneak attack. She's somewhere in the back of my mind, trying to disappear. Good. This is _my _mind, not hers.

Anger makes me restless, so I pace my room. It's only 6 AM now, so I have a few hours before my time in the training area. I'm going to go crazy before then. I stalk into the bathroom and turn the shower water up to a boil, making myself almost choke on the resulting steam. I stand under the water, jaw set, as the water stings angrily on my shoulders. It burns, but the pain is the good kind of distracting pain. With this kind of burn to contend with I don't have to think about the Hunger Games or the girl living in my head.

When I step out my skin is a livid red, slick with sweat. It hurts to pull my shirt back on and I begin to think that that was a mistake. If it's a permanent burn it could be trouble in the arena. As I wander around my room, though, the pain fades and I can shrug my shoulders without wincing.

"Hey!" I hear an irritable voice shout from outside my door. "You're not still asleep, are you? Your training slot is early, so get out here!"

I decide that I do not like whoever the voice belongs to. I take my time shuffling to the door before I finally wrench it open and stare lazily at the woman. "Yeah?"

"District 7 tribute, come with me." She tries to grab my hand but I recoil and instead stiffly walk past her.

"We're going down to the training center, right?" I ask flatly.

"Yes." When the brusque woman doesn't say anything else I press on.

"You're a peacekeeper?" I eye her suspiciously. I've never seen a female peacekeeper before, but she sure fits the role. Her clothes are gray and stiff, and though they don't resemble a peacekeeper's uniform, they look formal enough.

She turns on me with a snort. "Peacekeeper? We don't need peacekeepers in the Capitol, unlike you peasants. There's already peace here. Those men are just officials, or peacekeepers in training that will soon be sent to the districts."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm your escort to the training center." She crosses her arms and turns her back on me as we ride down the elevator.

"That doesn't answer the question." I frown at her, but she doesn't respond and I lapse into silence. She leads me through the lobby and into a building next to the hotel, this one as big as the warehouse from earlier. She doesn't even look back to check if I'm following, and I think of how easy it would be to slip away from her. Then again, I don't want to try anything like that with all of these "officials" around.

"You have two hours to train, and then I will be escorting you to where the Gamemakers will assess your skills."

It wasn't a question, so I brush past her into the room. I'm relieved when I see that people stand at each station, even with the Quell theme. Apparently the training center people are allowed to help us where our mentors can't.

I have two hours to learn how to kill other people. I nearly gag on the thought but press on, wandering first to the weapons station because it's the largest station and the most eye-catching. Weapons that I have no name for glint in the fluorescents and I wonder absently how they would feel if they bit into my skin. I can't imagine those clean blades being dirtied with my blood. They seem too pristine to hurt anything, even though I know that that's not true.

"Will you need assistance, tribute?" A thin man asks politely as he wipes down a couple of the blades.

"Uh…maybe in a minute?" I think aloud, grabbing for a thick axe that reminds me vaguely of home. It's too pretty to be from District 7, but it's a kind of weapon I know how to use. If I could get one in the arena…maybe I _could _kill with it.

For a second the huge axe nearly drops out of my hands, but I quickly adjust to the weight. It's not so hard to handle, even with a few spare inches built into it. At a loss, I hold it up for a moment before experimentally sinking the blade deep into the neck of the nearest dummy. The axe takes the head clean off, and I spin with it as momentum carries the weapon forward.

"Oh, that's right." The polite man sounds bored as he watches me maim the dummy. "You're the 7 kid."

I nod awkwardly as I wonder whether he thinks it's natural for me to be chopping heads off with axes. I guess it must look that way, but it makes my head spin to imagine a face on this dummy. I don't think I'll ever do that in the arena.

He's still staring at me, so I drop the axe hurriedly. I feel tainted with his expectant eyes on me. "What about other weapons?" I finally speak up. I don't want to ask him directly to teach me, but I'm hoping he'll get the message and teach me something anyway.

"The most useful weapon in the arena is the knife," he speaks up abruptly, coming to stand next to me after he grabs a few daggers off the wall. "They're portable and you don't need to know much to kill someone with them." The way he says _kill _so emotionlessly makes the hair on my arms stand up. He's obviously been doing this for a while. "It's pretty simple. Just put the blade into an unprotected area. Don't go for the chest unless you have to, though, because if you're inexperienced it's hard to judge where the heart actually is. The throat is your best shot. Stomach wounds kill, but slowly, so it's an unsafe bet to hit there. They could still kill you. Don't ever go for the head. I doubt you could drive a knife through a skull, even with those arms, so save that for the bigger weapons."

"I know all that," I interrupt queasily. I keep seeing Rom speared in these various places as he talks, so I have to lie to shut him up.

"When you grip a knife," he bulldozes into the next topic, "here's how you should do it." He grabs my hand and positions it on the knife, and it takes all of my self control not to pull away. "Move your thumb like this before you throw; it gives you more distance." I growl under my breath. His fingers are damp with sweat, and the skin is unusually smooth.

He continues in this train of thought for a while, chattering on about technical stuff. I doubt I'll be able to remember any of it when it comes time to defend myself.

"Want to know about something bigger?" He asks eagerly, taking a long sword off of the wall and slicing the air with it. His smile makes me want to run, so I shake my head firmly.

"I think I'm done here," I squeeze out and turn my back on him, exhaling heavily and sweeping my hair out of my eyes. He doesn't object as I speed away from him to a more benign looking area – edible plants.

"Look," I say as I approach the heavyset man standing there. Stubble lines his thick chin and his eyes droop above dark circles that form hollows in his flabby face. He looks up slowly as I slap my hands on the table, hoping to get his attention.

"Just teach me the basics, alright? A few common edible plants and common deadly ones. I already feel like my brain is going to burst."

He looks me up and down. "Alright," he rumbles, spilling a few preserved leaves onto the table along with a short picture catalogue.

"Don't eat anything with colors. Ever," he tells me firmly. "The Gamemakers like to make pretty plants to trick the tributes. If it has growths on the roots, though, it's probably safe."

He continues to lay out basic rules and tells me about several plants, though I can't tell them apart. The only thing I understand is counting the leaves, which is pretty self explanatory. I think he thinks I'm a lost cause as I walk over to the firemaking station, which doesn't help me very much. Growing up in a district where we almost eat branches, I know all about how to coax tinder into a flame.

Only thirty minutes left. I feel like I'm going to all the wrong stations and not learning enough to keep myself alive, so I hurriedly trot from the hand-to-hand combat station – where I learn about vulnerable body parts – to the knot and snare station.

A tiny sliver of a girl greets me there. She keeps pushing her hair back behind her ear, and as I watch her nervously tuck it away I am reminded of my own habit of pushing my hair back. "You're the 7 guy, right?" She asks, and her voice is a whisper that I have to lean in to hear. She nervously tugs on a fraying piece of rope as I nod slowly.

"Sleep in a tree. Move in the trees. Do everything you can that involves trees. They'll keep you alive." Her eyes are bright and fervent, making me take a step back.

"Uh, yeah, trees are pretty useful," I respond, narrowing my eyes in confusion. This girl is kind of creepy.

"Tie yourself in at night, ok?" She twists her hands in a complicated pattern and shoves the new knot in my face. I don't follow her movements at all. "Like this. Then you won't fall, and no one will find you." She curls my fingers around the rope, making me jump back, but she still holds onto my hand. "The trees will save you, you know."

I twist away from her and rub my hand where she touched it. "Ok, stop grabbing me!" I snap, sick of all of these Capitol people trying to touch me. She only stares back at me blankly, like it never even registered. I'm irrationally angered by her quiet, so I storm off towards another training station.

"District 7 tribute, your time in the center is over," a voice drones from some hidden place in the ceiling. I jump at the noise and send a glare in the snare girl's direction. She has made me jumpier than usual. "Please report to the doors to be escorted to your next destination." I stalk over to the door, willing myself not to think about the girl's bulging eyes watching me as I leave.

My old escort is waiting for me with a disgusted twist to her lip. "Learn much?" She asks with false cheer.

"Not really," I grumble before I catch myself and remember that I'm supposed to be ignoring this woman.

"I'm not surprised," she says dryly. "You look like you have a thick head."

This time I catch myself before I argue with her and just follow her quietly to yet another room in this giant building. I suppose we're kept in this complicated maze to disorient us so that there's no chance of escape.

"We're a bit early. Give 'em a few minutes and they'll collect you for your Gamemaker session."

I nod and sit down on a bench outside of a white door, which apparently hides the Gamemakers behind it. I don't really want to see the faces of the people who will be sitting in a neat control room while I battle it out with other kids, but it seems I have no choice. I don't have any strategy to impress them – I just want to go out of my way to keep them from hating me, even if it means not standing out. I'd rather not be singled out for one of their traps.

When I am called, I nod stiffly to the Gamemaker who leads me in and play with my fingers nervously as he goes and sits down behind a long table, where other Gamemakers are also seated. They watch me intently, and I can't help but stare back at their neat white robes. Every one of them is dressed the same, which sends an uncomfortable tingle down my spine. It's creepy.

I nod a greeting to them, too afraid to open my big mouth and alienate them. I woodenly grab an axe – the only weapon I'm really comfortable with – and stare awkwardly at the line of dummies before setting my face grimly. These are just dummies. I can pretend to kill them for the entertainment of these creepy men.

I heft the axe, which is even heavier than the one in the training room, and swing at the dummy nearest to me. With a swift thunking noise the head rolls across the floor to land right at the foot at the table. It's almost comic to see, but I can't focus on that. Instead I take two quick paces and lodge the axe into the chest of another dummy. It sticks firmly in and I have to spend a nerve-wracking minute yanking it out, but I eventually pull it free and move onto the next one. I don't know what else to do to these dummies, so I set to methodically hacking off all of the limbs of one before turning on the one closest to the wall. Seized by a sporadic whim, I throw the axe at this dummy. It wobbles a bit as it leaves my hand as I'm unused to throwing things like this, but it still sails through the neck of the dummy and lodges into the wall behind it. It even looks impressive to me.

I turn to face them. I don't know if my time is up, but I'm done. They watch me speculatively before dismissing me. I stride out of the room quickly, relieved when I can breathe air that isn't contaminated by the stuffy breath of those Gamemakers. I think I did ok – I was certainly forgettable with my polite nodding and simple axe swinging, but I didn't look weak, either. I'm just another tribute to them, and that's exactly what I wanted.

I breeze past the escort, who wrinkles her eyebrows annoyingly at me before getting up to follow.

"You look happy," she comments blandly. I guess she's referring to my pace as I race out of the corridors and to the front door of this building, but she's wrong. As I push eagerly out the door I'm not thinking about anything beside the fact that this could be one of the last times I ever see the sun.


	9. Chapter 9

**D: I'm sorry guys! I really was trying to stick to updating every two days, but then I went and got grounded. I won't be writing freely for a week, so any progress I make will be made at midnight and updates may or may not happen. If it's any consolation, the arena launch is up next chapter, along with a scandalous Capitol move and a…er…"smashing" surprise for the tributes. *Snicker* If you bother to read this whole chapter let me know via a review, eh? :)**

"Wait," I say, holding out a hand to stop my escort before she leads me back into the hotel. She stops and looks at me grumpily.

"The arena launch is tomorrow, so is there anywhere…else I can stay for a little while? I'm kind of sick of my room."

She doesn't look sympathetic. "That's probably against the rules, and you still have your interview tonight to consider. Get in there."

I shoot her a dirty look but go inside anyway. I only wanted to breathe a little before I was shot back into the whirlwind of Capitol ceremonies and brightly colored people. And yeah, maybe I was thinking halfheartedly about a last minute escape attempt. Would it be better to be shot down by these "officials" during an escape or get hacked to pieces by some crazed kid? I'm not sure, but I'm also not eager to tempt fate.

I sigh and walk after her. "What about my interview clothes? Am I supposed to make those, too?"

She shakes her head. "Your tuxedo will be delivered to your room shortly before the ceremony."

I snort. "I thought we weren't supposed to get any help. Now people are making my interview outfit for me?"

My escort watches me blandly. "It's not up to you to decide the rules, tribute. Just go inside."

I clench my teeth together and do as she says, slamming the door yet again. Like the peacekeepers-that-aren't-peacekeepers, she doesn't react in any way. I hear the clicking of her heels as she trots back to the elevator.

_Don't do anything rude, ok? During the interviews, I mean. I know you're going for fierce and surly and all, but don't insult the Capitol people or anything because then you'll become a target. _The voice is breathless, talking so fast that I can hardly understand what she's saying. She obviously wants to spit it out as fast as she can before I can shut her down.

"I know that!" I snap back. "Don't you think I know that? That's what I've been doing this whole time!" I hear my words echo around the empty room and I realize how crazy I must seem – yelling to myself in my hotel room. I push on, though, determined to drive her away again. "You _died! _How good can I expect your advice to be when it _never worked for you?_" I know that the best way to deal with her is probably to just ignore her, but I can't help myself. I want to tear her to shreds. "Just go away," I snarl quietly. "I feel like I'm losing my mind every time you say something. If you want to help so badly, disappear."

I hear a snuffling sound, and it sounds so real for a second that I feel a quick pang. It sounds like I've actually made a real girl cry and it takes me a minute to remind myself that she's not real. She can't even cry. Stony-faced, I wait for her to slink away.

_My name's Day, you know, _she whimpers, and then she's gone.

"Uhhh…sir?" The new voice isn't timid, like the one in my head, but she sounds perplexed and muffled from the other side of my door.

She knocks. "Can you even hear me?" I hear her sigh and mutter something about having to knock so many times.

I must have missed her in the wake of all my yelling, and all she would have heard was me raging at myself. I push my hair back, embarrassed, and open the door with a sheepish look. I catch the tail end of her muttering again, "…Darren was right, the tributes this year really have lost it."

My embarrassed half-smile quickly drops to a glare, and it's her turn to look uncomfortable.

"Uh…sorry," she says, looking up at me. "But you were talking to yourself," she points out and a defensive look crosses her young face. She can only be 14 and she's built like a weed, but something about her makes me instantly dislike her. She's too convinced of her own wit.

I narrow my eyes at her. "Who are you?"

"I'm here to give you your interview clothes. Hurry up and change; then we're headed down to the cable car. I'd suggest a shower, but I don't have time for that."

I dwarf her in size, so when I stare down at her I just get a peek of eyelashes and cocked eyebrows. I don't even know how to respond to her bossiness. "Who are you?" I repeat through gritted teeth.

This time she responds by giving me a forceful shove into my room. "Seriously," she says, "we do have a schedule to stick to."

I shove the bundle of cloth back into her arms and cross my own arms. "You look young enough to be a tribute." I narrow my eyes at her when her face twists in disgust at my blunt tone.

"I'm twenty-two," she snaps and throws the tuxedo over my head and into my room. "Now go change or the officials will have something to say about this." Her round face is contorted into an impressive snarl, but she still looks too young to even be wandering around without her parents. It had something to do with her twiggy figure and fatty face, I decided. Her hair was baby-fine as well, hanging down in wispy black strands.

Before she can have the satisfaction of slamming the door on me and forcing me back into the room I step back and lock the door in her face. She huffs audibly and I can't help but grin at how different she is from the stiff workers around here. She's much more annoying, but it's refreshing to know that I'm not living in a world of wax figures that only resemble people with real emotions.

I yank the clothes on, disgruntled by how well they fit (how did these people get the measurements?) and don't bother to run a comb through my still-tangled hair, which has experienced a period of explosive growth since my arrival in the Capitol. When I fling the door open again, the first words out of the girl's mouth are that I look like a complete slob.

"Good. I look like a brute, don't I?" The sincere question slips out before I remember who I'm talking to. I honestly do want to know, though, whether my interview angle is going to reflect what I look like. I want to at least look mildly rumpled, like I'd rather kill small children than bother with hygiene.

The thought is disturbing enough to make me remember, despite all of this easy living I've had recently, that I'm going into the Hunger Games _tomorrow. _

Obviously the girl isn't thinking about the same thing, because she just snorts at my question as if it was obvious and hauls me into the elevator. This time we don't walk to wherever the interviews are going to be held. Instead we board a strange, tiny train that rides high above the roads on slimly coiled wires. The girl informs me that it's a cable car reserved for only the highest officials. She doesn't look much like one of those to me, but I nod complacently and watch the sights fly by.

At our arrival I am yanked out of the car by several pairs of hands that drag me far out of sight of the car and into a building that flanks a tiny stage that overlooks the huge field crowded with Capitol citizens. A comb is immediately taken to my hair and I wonder if these are my stylists after all until one of them snaps in my ear that they can't have me making a mockery out of their Capitol. From there I am jostled about with not even the time to protest until I land in a secure waiting room. A guard waits by the door, but other than that I am alone. I figure that the other tributes must be in this building somewhere, being interviewed individually, and that the security is so tight because I'm not supposed to catch even a glimpse of them.

And then the wait sets in. I have to put my mind in figurative lockdown to prevent both the girl and rampant thoughts from escaping. I don't need to break down right before walking out in front of Panem for the event that will have the best choice of winning me sponsors. She lurks daintily in the corners of my thoughts and I get the feeling that she'd be biting her tongue if she had one to bite. She feels like she's getting ready to spill some more useless advice on me before my big interview.

I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating only on the wall I throw up against her until the guard outside of my room comes to retrieve me. Only then do the nerves and fear well up. I know that there's hardly a chance of me screwing this up with the one-word answers I have planned, but I still feel uneasy.

The farther we walk the louder the chants and shouts get. I can hear the Capitol crowd vibrating through the walls, all chattering monkeys painted up garishly. I'm beginning to imagine flashing spotlights to accompany the crowd's cheering before I realize that I've been shoved into the entrance to the stage and that a real spotlight is trained on my face. I blink back blindness and nearly stumble onstage, where I catch myself and set my face into a mask of indifference. The walk to the chair beside Amelia Flickerman's is a long one, but I manage not to trip on the way there and maintain my composure.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Amelia begins dramatically, "Arden Wade, representing District 7! Give it up!" She beams and I understand just from that smile that she actually loves what she does up here, and I know that she's good at this. She has a knack of making the tributes seem better than they are.

The applause dies down as Amelia grandly signals with one hand for there to be quiet. I blink again, taking in the wash of bodies stretching out from the stage. They don't really look like people as much as they look like birds all pecking and flapping at one another.

Amelia laughs, a tinkling noise that only sounds prettier coming through the microphone. "Arden, I think they like you," she giggles, shooting me a wink at the same time. Her ease and rapport with the audience make me want to forget all about my strategy of curt answers and spill some secrets, but when the questions begin I realize that I couldn't do that no matter who my interviewer was. Despite her pretty laugh, I hate her like I hate all the rest.

"Let's start out with something exciting, shall we?" She doesn't wait for any assent on my part before moving on. "What'd you think about that training score! A 7 for District 7, huh?" She prods my arm playfully with her elbow. "Pretty impressive."

Her words make me realize that I had never been told what my training score was and that this is the first I've heard of it. It must look bad to come to this revelation in front of all of Panem, so I quickly shut down my face again and take a deep breath before I stutter something out.

"It works," I say, and I'm relieved when I sound almost bored. Like the score was beneath me but that it didn't matter because I knew I would get sponsors anyway.

"It certainly does," Amelia agrees with a warm shake of her head. "I know you haven't been able to meet the other tributes, but with that score in mind, what do you think about your chances in the arena?" She smiles encouragingly.

"They're good." I cut myself off roughly before I say 'good enough,' which was what I initially wanted to say. My answer sounds better without the indecision. I shut my mouth pointedly because Amelia's looking at me as if she wants to hear more, but I'm not willing to deviate from my angle to elaborate on my chances which, frankly, are precarious when I'm not even sure I'll survive just listening to the girl in my head chatter on.

"So that's you after you arrived at our beautiful city," she laughs cheerfully, "but what about back home, Arden?" The familiarity with which she uses my name makes me uncomfortable. "What about your family?"

I can see my mother, eyes glued to the screen, while my father undoubtedly averts his eyes. She's surely leaning over that ratty couch, fingers clenched white to the bone.

"They want me back," I say simply, trying to keep my tone as brusque as possible. I'm not here to get sympathy sponsors. I want to be intimidating, not a sad story for these people to gobble up. Besides, every tribute has a family to cry over, and my story's not original enough to tell.

"With a handsome face like this, who wouldn't?" She jokes, gently angling my chin towards the audience, who laugh back and clap. "Got any girls back home?"

I think of Rom and I have to stifle a laugh at what he'd say in response to this question. It takes me a moment to compose a "no" that sounds stony enough for my intimidating angle.

"All the better for the single ladies around here, no?" She teases, and hands go up all over the crowd. I even hear a few whoops.

"Now, Arden, we're all anxious to see this Quarter Quell because of the amazing theme. Tell me, how great is your new mentor?"

I freeze because I know exactly what she's talking about. She's asking me how I feel about the parasite clinging inside of me, the one that's slowly taking my sanity away from me. And she wants a positive answer, like I should be grateful to get this twelve-year old shrimp of a tribute instead of a team of experienced mentors. Like having her in my head all the time is an advantage instead of a curse. Like having her advice during the actual Games beats out any preparation stylists could have given me.

Slowly, I grit my teeth and fight back the rage bubbling up. "Her?" There's a long pause. "She's going to kill me if I don't kill her first." The edge of my sentence bites with anger and I can hear my voice rising past the tame volume of Amelia's question.

I stand abruptly, clenching a fist and ripping my hair back with the other hand as the buzzer rings, signaling that my time is up.


	10. Chapter 10

**After being grounded, I return with this lengthy chapter. I apologize if the pacing in this chapter seems off to you; I kind of lost my writing stride for this chapter. I think I got it back, though. :) Enjoy, and don't forget to drop a review. Those little things really make my day.**

No amount of distraction will get me onto that train. Clenching my fists, as if bracing against a blow, does not make the idea of getting on this train any less painful. Closing my eyes, as if that will make the looming train in front of me disappear, does not make me forget where that train will take me. Pretending that I'm somewhere far away from here does not fool me. This is the train that will take me to the arena, where I will die.

I halt in front of the discreet door etched into the side of the train. There will be no grand entrance for me, even though, by the looks of my entourage of guards, I could be a celebrity. The lax security that wallowed around my hotel does not compare to the massive flocks of "officials" that surround the train now. I know why – for the first time since coming to the Capitol, I will be in the company of the other tributes. All 24 of us will be riding on this train, and it takes quite a force of guards to ensure that we never catch sight of each other. Besides, this would be the last opportunity for a desperate tribute to make his escape, and that would be devastating at this stage of the Games.

The guards only give me about three seconds to pause in front of the train before the shove me into it. I stumble, bracing myself on the sides of the doorframe, as the terrible claustrophobia sets in. I've never been claustrophobic before – you grow used to never seeing the sky in the thick forests of 7 – but this is a different kind of claustrophobia. The kind that screams that I will never set foot off of this train as a free man, so the only chance to save myself is to not enter in the first place.

Too late.

I am set upon again by more guards once they shut the door behind me. They all plaster themselves to my skin and I find it hard to breathe as they drag me towards another small door, which is where I assume I will be staying for the duration of the ride to the arena. I hear shuffling all around me, which I guess are the other tributes being hustled into their own rooms, but my guards have effectively blocked my vision.

They push the door open and shuffle me in, and I'm relieved when I get to breathe again in my own space. The smallest of the pack, a young guy, follows me in. He looks grumpy, as if he got the worst job guarding me in here while the others get to play around in the rest of the train, and I assume he's at the bottom of the totem pole of his group. When they shut the door, though, his mood brightens. "Don't worry," he chirps sincerely, and his very pale eyes are brimming with cheeriness that I can't match. "You're in for a very short ride, or so I heard. Only a half an hour and we'll be landing." He shoots me an exuberant grin, which exhausts me. He must be older than me, but looking at him I feel a thousand years old. I guess a kid like him has nothing to worry about, working in the Capitol. He won't have to fear his gruesome death in the arena.

Only one chair has been provided, which he promptly takes. Despite his reassurances, he can't be bothered to give me my seat, and it doesn't surprise me. I worm my way into a corner of the tiny room, and I'm bitterly satisfied that there's no window. Why tempt us with a look into a world we'll never be a part of again?

"You know—" the young official begins again, upbeat, but in a moment his words disappear in the screaming. I have a moment to think objectively about the screaming – it doesn't sound like any noise a person can make – before it registers that I'm being forcefully compressed into the wall behind me. We're _falling. _I grope for something to hold onto in a moment of blind panic, but before I can even unfurl my hand real hell breaks loose.

The next noise is not a scream so much as it's a wrench, as if someone has taken a person and ripped them distinctly in half at the waist. A roaring back draft of noise follows, and then the world is dead to my ears because my own body is being tossed across the room.

The dull eggshell-white wall is deceiving in that it looks more delicate than it is. It doesn't yield as I crumple against it, bones reduced to dust, and my skull nearly shatters against it with a distinct crack. I slump, disoriented, until something else slams into me from behind. I hear the faint clatter of wood – the chair, maybe - and the thump of another body.

Pain races up my leg and I writhe against the wall, where I am now pinned. Frantic, I try to struggle against whatever is holding me down, but my eyes are swimming and I can hardly see, let alone move. I look up, fighting the sudden shrill keening in my head and the shock holding my body still. Day is screaming in my head, I realize dully, and sobbing wildly as I try to wriggle out from the weight.

Something shifts and something hard knocks against my forehead. I adjust my gaze to see a face, slack in death and staring right down at me. Blood leaks from parted lips and warms the spots on my forehead where it falls. It's the young guy, I realize, horrified. He's dead. It doesn't take much effort to see the splinter of a shattered chair leg protruding from his neck.

My stomach rolls weakly and I'm too stunned to throw up, but I can't stop the childishly horrified thoughts rolling through my head. _Oh hell oh hell oh hell, _I whimper to myself.

I choke back spit and roll him off of me. I can't ignore the thud of his limp body rolling back across the floor, but it's hard to think as Day's cries intensify. _Your leg! _She wails, nearly incomprehensible. _It hurts it hurts it hurts. _Each of her words is a gasping sob, and I know she's crying because of more than my leg, which is still pinned against the wall by the chair. She's clearly shaken at the sight of the dead guy, and I'm too shaken as well to warn her away.

I pull my leg free and her cries soften into little moans and whimpers, and as I attempt to stand I find that my leg wasn't injured permanently, that it is just bruised from being shoved against the wall and that it doesn't really hurt. The side wall of the train is now the floor, which makes my stomach flip flop. We must have crashed, and judging by the way one of the walls bows inward, it was bad. I stagger out of my door, which sprang open in the commotion, forgetting about the blood on my forehead as I realize just how terrible my situation is.

Smoke thickens the air of the hall, making it hard to see all of the human devastation, but I can smell it. The air carries the tinny tang of blood and fear, and this time I actually do lose my lunch. I wipe my mouth weakly and blink against the dirty gray air.

I can see some of the tributes, who must have been in the hallway at the time of whatever just happened. A girl, curled into a tiny ball, is lying nearly at my feet. Her stringy black hair is clenched in loose fists, as if she was trying to find something to hold onto. When I move towards her, maybe to help her up, I finally see her face. When I do I jump back, sick again. She's dead, with the same slack expression as the young guard. Her neck is twisted at an odd angle, like a bird trying to preen itself.

_Oh, hell. _I bite down hard on my cheek and take a glance down the aisle to get an illegal look at the other tributes, some of which are staggering to their feet as well. For once I'm not just thinking about the advantages of seeing them. I just want to make sure I'm not the only one still alive.

All I see are a bunch of huddled bodies, aside from a tall girl coughing into her arm and a shrimpy boy that is trotting down the hall, looking aghast. After a moment of staring, though, my vision is filled with the white uniforms of the guards that are pouring into the hallway through every gaping crack in the train. I am steered mechanically away by two of them, and as I half-lurch down the hall I see more and more of the damage, which is visible through wide wounds in the side of the train.

We must have slid down some slope and landed in a highly forested area because all I see are trees and bushes cramming through the open spaces of the train. How are we ever going to get out? I allow them to yank me along because I'm still too shocked to move my own feet, and I wouldn't know where to go anyway.

_I'm scared, _Day whispers, sounding choked, as we walk. It seems to me like the danger is passed, but her fear is so strong that, despite that I'm the one in charge here, I almost shake with the intensity of it. It should scare me that her emotions are nearly strong enough to move my body for me, but I can't think about that as the guards finally manage to find a door that will open and lead me out of the wreckage. All of their movements are precise and stiff as they consult with each other in hushed voices.

"How fast can you get here?" I hear one of them whisper fiercely. "We must get the tributes to the launch area before an hour is up if we expect to start on time." He's talking into one of the phones the Capitol people always carry, not to his buddies. Even as he speaks, looming shapes appear in the air and descend with elegant silence. Hovercraft, I realize, as more and more dot the sky, waiting for an opportunity to land.

I am quickly hauled into one of them and handed over to a couple more guards, who order the ones on the ground to go back into the train and collect the other tributes. It's happens so swiftly that I hardly have time to register their movements before they are off, back into the train and leaving me to rise into the air with this hovercraft.

_Your leg still hurts, _Day says weakly, and it sends a chill down my spine when I think that she is experiencing everything that I am, and that my legs must feel like hers. It doesn't hurt me, though, and my momentary weakness towards her is gone. I shove her away, where she won't bother me anymore as I try and collect myself.

"Put this on." A bag of clothing is shoved at me and I look up into the tired eyes of my former escort. Far from being snappy and confident like before, now she looks like she just wants to lie down on the floor of this hovercraft and disappear. She wearily surveys the train wreck as we rise into the air, shaking her head.

"A girl died," I blurt without thinking it through first. I don't know what they'll do without that tribute so close to the Games, and it's obviously a problem because my escort's cheeks sag visibly at the news.

"You didn't see that," she sighs. "Ok? You didn't."

I rub my forehead absently, rethinking the intelligence of letting her know I knew about it. This close to the Games, though, she can't hurt me more than my own future can.

"I thought Capitol things couldn't break," I mutter, watching the landscape below us disappear as the hovercraft shoots upward.

The escort shoots me a look. "Just put the clothes on."

"What are they for, anyway?" Even as I ask, I realize what they are. They're the clothes I'll be wearing into the arena.

"Don't play dumb with me," she snaps. "Go in there." I follow the direction of her finger to a little, empty room, where I pull the clothes out of the bag and stare at them. The clothes look normal, to my surprise. I was expecting something more climactic, not just some black pants and a green t-shirt. If it's any hint about the arena, though, I'm relieved. The arena must not be anything crazy with these clothes.

I change quickly and shrug on the thin jacket provided for me. The clothes are actually much thicker than I thought, and I begin to feel stuffy inside of them. When I walk the clothes move with me, incredibly stretchy.

My escort is waiting for me in the main part of the hovercraft, and she shakes her head when she sees that I've tied the jacket around my waist. It's too warm to wear it in the hovercraft, but she insists that I put it on because I'm meant to enter the arena with the entire outfit on.

"Ten minutes," she sighs and pushes me down onto one of the plush benches circling the "lobby" of the hovercraft.

_I don't want to go, _Day whispers, clinging terrified to the recesses of my head. _I'm scared. _

_Shut up, _I think back wearily, but I'm too scared myself to chase her off. All I can think about is counting the seconds down in my head. _56, 57…60. _A whole minute has passed. Nine minutes until we land. Quickly eight minutes, then 5 minutes, follow. As we begin to descend, with three minutes still ticking down in my head, I wince. I thought I had ten minutes, but we must be ahead of schedule.

"Hey, tribute, stand up," my escort snaps, yanking on my arm to stand me up. I sway, unbalanced as the hovercraft smoothly races down to meet the ground.

"Listen. The Hunger Games are set to broadcast in fifteen minutes." Her tone is clipped, businesslike. "When we land you will be escorted through the building to an elevator, which will take you to a lower level. Then you will be loaded into the tube that will carry you into the arena. Go as fast as they tell you, alright? Don't make a commotion." The lines around her eyes stretch in worry.

I nod, unable to speak through the fear that's now choking me. As we touch down and a group of guards usher me quickly out of the hovercraft and into a nondescript gray building, I look back at the escort for a second, hoping that at least now she might offer me luck, or at least call me something besides "tribute." She's silent, though, and doesn't watch me leave.

_Day, _I snap, using her name to hopefully grab her attention. She immediately stops sobbing. _You're going to have to shut up. If you keep crying like this I'm going to get bloodbathed before I can even think. _She sniffs, and I take that as a yes as I get shuffled through the halls to an eerily small room with only one feature – the blue platform that's set to shoot me into the arena.

_Oh, hell, _I think desperately as the guards prod me onto the platform. I want something to grab onto to steady myself, but there's nothing and I'm left to push my hair back uneasily. How can they even think about running the Hunger Games on time when the tributes' train is lying at the bottom of some ravine right now? I think about protesting that something must be done to stop this, that surely they can't be ready to start the Hunger Games after that crash, but my platform is already rising.

I swallow hard and stare down at the guards until they're out of sight and I'm left to look up, into the bright sunshine. I wish I could just fly away or at least smash through this platform and fall back to the floor below, but that doesn't happen. Instead, I'm left to blink frantically as I'm momentarily blinded and the platform stops.

I'm standing in the middle of a spider web, I realize after I'm forced to rub my eyes against the glare of all the gold in the arena. Thickly-coiled gold wires make a web connecting all of the platforms to the Cornucopia, which is hard to look at with the sun beating down on it. My platform is perched high in the air, with nothing solid around it except for the wire that connects with the myriad of other wires. In fact, everything in the arena is floating inexplicably, including larger platforms that I can see in the distance.

The Cornucopia seems to be the center of the arena, because connecting to the back of my platform is another wire, and this one stretches to another spider web of wires that connect a bunch of other platforms, some the size of mine and some that are bigger than houses. A few more are so big that I can hardly see the edges. These platforms seem to replicate natural spaces – I can see a forest towering in one of them.

But to get to those platforms, I'll have to scale across these wires. As I study them it doesn't seem so hard. I'm not afraid of these heights after a lifetime of climbing trees to chop off the tallest limbs, so that won't be an issue. I could even travel across the wires by hanging down from them and pulling myself along with my hands.

I look back to the Cornucopia, remembering that my time is limited. This arena doesn't seem to be very bountiful with food supplies when it's made almost completely of barren wire, so if I can I'll have to get food at the Cornucopia. I scan the golden surface desperately. In the Cornucopia is a bounty of typical weapons and supplies, but I know I won't be able to reach those. Hanging from the wires close to the Cornucopia are littler objects – food, maybe.

I'm not afraid of these heights, but the other tributes might be, and that could slow them down. I glance quickly at the others, finally able to see my competition. Two girls are closest to me, and neither of them look like they're ready to clamber onto the wires. One of them, a tall girl with sleek auburn hair, crouches unsteadily on her platform with her hands over her ears. Her eyes are tightly shut.

I mark her as a bloodbath, mainly because of how she's refusing to even look at her surroundings. I realize a second later that the voice in her head has probably driven her insane, and that's why she's acting like this.

The other girl has thin black hair that's chopped off brutally at the shoulders and looks absolutely petrified. She's hugging her arms to herself, her eyes flickering wildly back and forth. As I look at her a second longer, I understand who she is. It's the girl that died on the train. Stunned, I search her face. They couldn't have brought her back to life.

But it's not her, I discover as I take a closer look. Her nose is too small, and her skin is lightly freckled where the other girl's had not been. She's just a stand in for the girl on the train, one that looks very similar. A Capitol citizen that has been watching her, though, could recognize her as a different person. I sweep the other tributes to make sure that I'm right, and that this is not just a different girl. No, none of the other female tributes even have black hair. The Capitol has replaced the dead tribute with someone else. It's horrifying to think that this girl was not even reaped, but that she'll probably die in here anyway.

She locks eyes with me, terror widening her pupils, just as the bell rings, signaling that the Hunger Games have begun.


	11. Chapter 11

**Eek! Sorry about the wait. Camping's fun, but it's not exactly the best time to write a fanfiction. ^^; Anyway, welcome to the bloodbath, my friends. Feel free *cough* to drop a review. :)**

When the bell rings, I expect an echo. I expect time to slow and for the ringing to buzz in my ears long after the actual trill stops. That's wishful thinking, though, because the shriek is crisp and brief, leaving me only enough time to watch the other tributes tense around me, deciding the best way to make it to the Cornucopia. The fake tribute girl stares back at me, her lips parted in an exhale. "I'm going to run," she shouts, her eyes hardening, and plunges from her plate with a look of uncertainty so strong it makes me falter. She hesitates on her plate for just a moment before she drops onto the wire leading away from the Cornucopia and swings herself, hand over hand, toward a platform in the distance. She's so thin that the wire hardly bows under her weight.

I don't have time to wonder why she shouted that to me, or what it even meant, and I push that out of my mind. Several tributes are unsteadily making their way across the wires, and I wonder what the Capitol people think about this slow beginning to the Games. Surely they're getting impatient.

In an uncharacteristic burst of confidence, I vow to give them a show.

On a tree branch I would crawl, hands and knees gripped around the limb. These wires aren't thick enough for that, though, so the only option that springs to mind is what the girl did to scramble away. Despite the fact that I weigh much more than her, my callused fingers will be able to hold on.

I want to leap across the wires and land that much closer to the Cornucopia, but I know that a jump would only kill me. I crouch, hyper-aware of the time I'm wasting, and slowly lower myself into the air. My forearms brace against the shock of weight and I pause, tightening my jaw, before carefully propelling myself forward.

It's eerie how alone I feel on this stretch of wire. I feel almost no urgency when none of the other tributes can even reach me yet, but in a few feet I'll be a part of the huge, close-knit mesh of wires where anyone can touch me. That's where thin cloth bags, almost transparent, hang like egg sacks from the spider web. From here I can see they're all approximately the same size, but that closer to the Cornucopia the bags disappear and are replaced by glinting weapons hanging from the wires by thin straps. Kids that I assume are this year's Careers are close to the weapons now, but their movements are slow and they keep looking at each other suspiciously as they draw closer. In a way, the Quell theme is an advantage for me because right now the Careers don't know which kids are a part of their pack and they don't know who to trust.

_Stop thinking, go! _Day shrieks, reminding me of why I'm here. _Go! Go!_ I can tell that she's close to tears and I feel like reprimanding her for being so over-emotional, but I can't blame her for being a twelve year old. She must be terrified, too, because she would feel my death as clearly as I would.

_Forward, _I think to myself sternly. The braver tributes have ventured out onto the wires near me, while some still hang back on their platforms, hesitant. Only a few have started scampering towards the huge platforms in the distance.

I linger on the end of my wire, watching uneasily as the other kids swarm over the spider web. One loses their balance and slips, screaming, into the void beneath us. Unable to tear my eyes away, I witness her body smash into some unseen force and disintegrate on impact. No cannon rings for her, since it's the bloodbath, but I know that she's dead. If I slip, I will be, too.

I plunge towards the first bag, snatching it. It jangles loosely and feels too light in my hand. _Whatever's in this bag isn't good enough, _I decide. Even this close to my plate, though, other tributes can reach me and easily push me into the void. This is still a bloodbath, even if the tributes are too wary to get to close to each other for fear of falling.

Without thinking, I pull myself forward again. This movement makes my forearms shake wearily and I'm reminded of how easy letting go could be. No one else seems to have figured out a better way of traveling, though, so I'm stuck with my tired arms.

A girl near me screams as another tribute crouches precariously on top of a wire and swings an unopened bag at her head, making her lose her grip and plummet downwards. As she falls, though, she catches his pant leg and he topples after her. Two more deaths.

The bag the male tribute was reaching for still dangles, and with him gone there's no one around to snatch it. I hurry toward it, so focused on getting it that I don't think about the other tributes that lurk closer to me, scavenging for the same supplies. This bag is much heavier than my other one, and as I slip it onto my shoulder I think that I'll only go for one more. After all, if anyone gets in my way I can just push them. The thought of pushing someone and watching their body cleanly disintegrate isn't as horrifying as driving a knife through their heart would be. It doesn't seem as human when your victim just disappears instead of leaking their blood all over your hands.

"You hesitated just a bit too long." I hear a sharp voice just as an even sharper knife is driven into one of my arms.

I cry out and involuntarily let the wounded arm drop, leaving me to struggle to hold on with just one arm. Standing impossibly tall above me is a tall girl with pin straight hair and a wolfish grin. She looks completely at ease balancing her toes on the wire and slicing my arm to bits.

I'm going to die.

Day begins to cry inconsolably. _Run Arden run Arden run, _she begs, her voice faltering as her throat closes up from fear. _Please get away from her._ Her voice trails off into a hiccup of pleading sobs. _Please, please. _

Day shrieks again as the girl falls off of her wire. But instead of falling, the girl neatly swoops down to greet me at face level. I stare dumbly as she gives me a little half-wave and a cheerful smile. She still looks relaxed, despite her recent fall. That's when I see the strange contraption that holds her up.

A metal cuff circles one hand and is attached by a long wire to another cuff. This cuff is clasped around one of the arena wires, ensuring that she can't fall. I dimly recognize the contraption as a pair of handcuffs, long unused peacekeeper weapons that are supposed to tie a criminal's hands behind their back. With them, the girl is invincible.

She pulls her knife out of my arm, making Day whimper. I think vaguely that at least when I die I won't have to listen to the voice in my head anymore. At least Day won't get to drive me insane. But with the way Day is crying now, with soft childish sobs, it doesn't feel like she's a voice in my head. It feels like she's a young girl beside me, enduring the same pain I am, and that leaves me feeling queasy and uncomfortable.

"Now, I think you've mistakenly grabbed something that isn't yours," she says silkily, bringing her knife up to my throat and pressing down gently as her other hand, the one that's not handcuffed, snakes around the my back and clamps down on the bag on my shoulder. "I'll just take this and be one tribute closer to—"

I punch her, hard, in the nose, making her head snap back. Bones crunch under my fingers and her nose smashes easily inwards. I think about softer things as I mutilate her face - the smoothness of her skin and the quiet relief of her knife falling away from my neck as her body goes limp. It almost feels like I'm not the one hurting her, especially when I'm so swamped with the hope that I might live after all. I could be watching the Games from the ratty old couch at home.

She sways from the wire as I pull my hand back, still like a corpse, though I know she isn't dead. I am left with a second to stare at her, sickened, before Day returns to screaming.

_Run, run! _Other tributes are drawing closer as I pause. Much of the bloodbath has passed, with almost no gore as evidence that it ever happened. All of the dead tributes have vanished into the air below, leaving me as a clear target for the Careers still lurking by the Cornucopia.

_Wait a second! _I snap, thinking about the girl's pair of handcuffs. If I had those, I wouldn't have to worry about simply slipping to my death. The desire for the safety they promise is so strong that I don't even think about my actions as I unclasp the cuff from her wrist. I don't even think that taking the handcuffs off of her means letting her unconscious body crash into the void. That doing this means killing her. I just slip the cuff onto my own wrist and watch, shell-shocked, as her blonde hair whips around her as she makes the final descent. When her body is gone, I realize that I have just killed someone.

The knowledge makes my body go cold. Numbly, I use my good arm to drag myself carelessly along the wire. Without the fear of falling I move much faster, even with the shallow wound from her knife throbbing every time I propel myself forward.

No one follows me as I make it back to the original launching platforms, but I can hear some of the tributes, who I assume are the Careers, arguing at the Cornucopia. Other tributes that escaped the bloodbath are all struggling forward on their own wires, some equipped with the same handcuffs that I have. One guy shoots me a glare and attempts to throw a tiny dagger at me, but it misses and goes careening off into the void.

After a few seconds of awkward scooting I find a rhythm and begin to glide along my wire, letting gravity do the work. The bags tug at my shoulders as I near the first platform, a grassy rise about the width of my house with a single tree squatting in the middle. I dangle uncertainly at the edge of the platform before hauling myself up onto the grass and unhooking my wrist from the wire. As soon as I hit the ground I slump down, exhausted, and weakly bring my palms up to my eyes. Not a smear of blood discolors my fingers, which still bend smoothly beneath my skin. My hands are entirely too clean to have killed a girl, but I suddenly know that this won't be the last time someone dies at my hands.


	12. Chapter 12

**Ahaha! I'm back on a roll. Go, writing juices, go! If you've clicked all the way to chapter 12 (*gape* this story is moving so fast!) then please drop me a note, just so that I know you're still with me. :)**

From my vantage point, I can see the whole arena. Far from the eerie loneliness of the beginning of the Games, I can now see the tributes skating along the wires or disappearing into platforms. I'm alone on my platform, but I feel the crushing weight of the cameras and the other tributes watching me. Day, though she's silent, is more alive than ever in my head and I feel her nearly vibrating.

There are countless platforms that I can see. The Cornucopia plate is just a bit bigger than the Cornucopia, and the surface is golden as well. Littler ones, the size of our launch platforms, are interspersed throughout the web, which spans as far as my eyes can see. I can pinpoint four huge platforms that are decorated like normal landscapes – I see a forest and a watery oasis as well as two other distant areas. I know that's where most of the tributes have landed. Multiple other platforms the size of houses spot the wires, like the one I'm on.

My own area is a little hump of grass and a single tree that branches out over the entire platform. I slump under the tree, back to the trunk, and warily watch the tributes passing by on the wires. None of them seem to notice me, which isn't a surprise in such a huge arena. There must be at least a platform for each of us.

My bags sit on my lap, unopened though my fingers itch to tear them apart. I'm wary of looking at the contents when the bloodbath is hardly over in case of a surprise ambush. I can't keep my head from flipping back and forth, paranoid, as I watch the tributes' movements. Every muscle quivers, tense. I can feel the imminent danger to my life more fervently than I ever have before, though I've been in some dangerous situations in the past.

The pair of handcuffs is hooked around my wrist with one end hanging open and loose on the ground. If I need to run I'll be able to hook myself onto a wire fast enough to hopefully escape. I fiddle with the contraption as I watch the other tributes, happy to find that the wire in the middle is extendable. I'll even be able to stand up on the wires if I need to because of the length.

Minutes pass, and though the paranoia still buzzes through my veins, I think it safe to peer into my two packs. One, to my disappointment, holds nothing but tiny, empty water bottles, which remind me of how desperate my need for water is. The other is more useful, with a collection of items like matches, some strange pills, and bandages. I study the pill container, which is emblazoned with a single word: vitamins. These better be quite the vitamins if they're going to keep me alive out here, but it's more likely that they're just useless toys.

I lean back, sighing. With all the commotion of the pre-Games ceremonies and the voice in my head, I hadn't even thought about strategy for the Games. The strategies I've seen on TV are much too complicated for me and involve mind games, which are too hard to play out when I'm sitting alone on this platform. I've done nothing to get sponsors, so I'm sure I won't be receiving silver parachutes any time soon. I decide that the best option is to just wait it out and keep a close eye on the tributes. For now, though, I pack all of my items into one bag and tie it to my belt. The other bag I stuff into my pocket.

_I don't know any good strategies, _Day speaks up suddenly. _I died in the bloodbath._

I hiss to myself, ignoring her even though her words have made it that much harder to be cruel to her when I remember that she was a real person once. Sitting's too dangerous, so I stand and pace restlessly, fingering the loop on my belt. The tree would be good for shade if it was very sunny in the arena, I think to myself, but at the moment the temperature is so perfect that I hardly feel the air around me.

As I pace under the branches I take a closer look at the growths hanging down from the tree. At first I assumed that they were hard and inedible, good only for lobbing at an enemy tribute, but after closer inspection I see that they look like normal fruit. We don't have many fruit trees in District 7, so I've never seen a fruit like this before, but according to what the edible plant station told me, these fruits aren't off-limits. It seems too good to be true in the arena, though, so when I pluck one down I stare at it warily.

Then again, I'll die without food and I'll probably die within the next few days anyway, so this is no huge risk. I take a big bite out of it, shoving rational fears aside, and chew confidently. With any luck, this won't kill me in an hour.

As I chew, relief flooding me as the food hits my stomach, I look up into the branches. They look sturdy and thick, good-quality limbs by District 7 standards. They're dry enough to break so I snap one off and look at the aged wood. How long has this tree stood here to be this old? Was the arena built around trees like this one? But no, that's impossible. This arena is a feat of science, not the natural world. The Capitol has just tricked this tree into thinking itself old.

Whatever its origins, this branch could make a good weapon in a pinch. It doesn't take too much effort for me to swing this at someone, and since I have no background with weapons I think that it's my best choice. I rip the twigs off of it and smooth its sides as well as I can. I'd like to sharpen the tip, but I see no way to do that without a knife. I drop it on the ground beside me and go back to sitting under the tree, gnawing on the fruit and stuffing as many of them into my spare bag as I can. I clumsily wrap my arm with some of the bandages from my bag, though the cut isn't as severe as I thought.

Most of the tributes have disappeared into the platforms, and the arena is deathly quiet. Now that the bloodbath is over and night draws closer, I can nearly feel the Capitol audience itching for more blood. Surely the Gamemakers have some nasty plot they're ready to deploy, but I don't see how I'm supposed to prepare for whatever horrors are in store. So I just sit and wait, watching the sky darken around me. In the half-light the wires are eerily beautiful, like stars hanging too close to the earth.

When the moon is the only light left in the arena, the banner with the Capitol seal stretches across the sky, signaling the end to day 1. I watch, stony faced, as the faces and names blink into view. The first face, surprisingly, is the face of the blonde girl with the wolfish grin – the one I killed. District 2, it says, Lea Monty. She was a Career, and I killed her. I should have been happy that the sponsors might take more interest in me, but all I can think is that I should have grabbed her long hair as it spiraled out behind her and dragged her to somewhere safe before removing her handcuffs.

She disappears too quickly and I feel sick. The only people that will ever know her now are the ones she knew before. As a bloodbath kid, she's now forgotten in the minds of everyone watching. Just a death that was fun to watch but accounted for nothing in these Games.

The boy from 4 is up next, another Career gone. He's thin, with hair slicked down his forehead, but he has mean eyes and an ugly twist to his lips that convinces me that he would have been a contender had he survived the bloodbath. The fact that two Careers are dead leaves me reeling, but I guess being trained all your life doesn't save you from slipping off these wires.

Next are the two kids from six, who I recognize as the ones that both fell when the girl was pushed but pulled the boy down with her. It seems stupid to me that the district partners would have attacked each other in the bloodbath, but the chances were that they didn't remember that they were from the same district in the heat of the moment and without seeing each other for the pre-Games ceremonies.

I feel unjustly vindicated when the face of my district partner pops up next, complete with her thick hair chopped haphazardly into her eyes and that confident smirk. She was so confident at the Reaping, but didn't even make it past the bloodbath. I feel sick a second later, though, when I think that she had a family back home that is mourning her even now. To think that about her is to turn into a monster like the rest of the tributes.

I stare reluctantly at her face as it wavers in the sky, just as I hear a piercing scream and a cannon to signal another death. I spring to my feet, convinced that the danger is near, but nothing moves near me and I go warily back to watching the screen, which hesitates on the frame of my partner's face. I can almost see the Gamemakers scurrying, trying to decide whether or not to announce this new death with all the others. In a second, though, the screen flashes to the next face.

Both the kids from 8 and 12 are also dead, victims of the bloodbath, leaving 15 of us still alive - 14 if the recent death wasn't one of the faces shown in the sky. 4 Careers left, and even the two District 3 kids remaining. There will probably be celebration in that district just that their tributes survived the bloodbath.

The screen disappears, leaving me to sit quietly again and eat another one of the fruits. I haven't had any water yet, but if I suck on the fruit hard enough a pleasant juice wets my mouth. I could probably survive off of these alone, and after surviving the bloodbath I'm not sure that I'll be dying within the next week. Maybe I'll even get to go home. Surely nowhere else in the arena is this well stocked.

Though I don't want to sleep, it's late and I'm afraid to fall asleep on the ground, unprotected. And despite how creepy it was that the training station lady insisted that "the trees would save me," it won't hurt to set up camp in the branches of this tree.

I quickly make the climb to about halfway up the tree, leaving my stick on the ground but hooking my two bags on tree branches next to me. Almost immediately, lulled by the rustling of the leaves, I begin to doze. I just want to go to sleep and lose myself in my dreams, even if my dreams include the girl I killed haunting me.

I'm dreaming about Day tugging me through the forest at home, long brown curls streaming out from behind her as she runs. She turns back to me, saying something, but her lips don't move as she talks. Instead, her face is a featureless bowl of smooth skin. The skin near her chin twists and disfigures as she talks, making me want to hurl. Her tiny hands grip mine as she nods urgently, and I wonder absently how she can see without eyes.

Then I can finally make out what she's saying. "There's someone up there," she insists, her voice hushed. "Really?" She pauses, still whispering. "Yeah. It's a guy, but I don't think he has any weapons." Another pause, and then she continues with, "Just get up there and stab him, then we'll take his stuff."

I watch her, confused, as her skin twists and bulges in a mockery of speech.

"What?" I ask, peeling her hands off of me and watching her with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. How did she get out of my head?

"Shh, don't step on anything!" She hisses. It's like she can't even hear me.

"What?" I ask again, but this time my voice is slowed and groggy, like I'm hearing it through syrup. I sound like I'm half asleep. "What?" I ask halfheartedly as speech becomes harder and harder and my jaws are glued together by something sticky. "Wha…?"

"Stab him!" The command is a bark, loud enough to wake me from the dream. I twist, immediately awake, and look into the eyes of the attacker. His knife descends, a flash of death, just as I squirm up and grab his shoulder. He shouts in alarm, struggling to free himself from my grip, before apparently thinking better of it and leaning back. I surge back against him, scrabbling for purchase on the tree limb, before his fist snaps out again to land square in my stomach.

I let out a shout and fall backwards, the force of his blow enough to send me flying out of the tree. I hear a distinct crack as my left arm twists beneath me and I shout again, the pain enough to send a red mist clouding into my eyes.

"You didn't kill him." The voice is irritable as I stagger to my feet, staring at my arm in horror. It's twisted into a sickening angle, just like when I broke my arm as a little kid. What had my mother done? Set it? Stomach rolling, I clumsily grab my elbow and force it forward.

I nearly black out and fall to my knees. _I don't think I did it right, _I think, head spinning. I reel in place, panting hard and clutching the grass under my hands. The thought of my attackers hasn't even registered with the angry waves of pain, but when I look up dazedly I see them standing a few feet away.

"He's killing himself over here," one of them snorts. I blink slowly as I realize that they're about to kill me. I'm going to die on the first night of the Hunger Games. With this much pain I won't even be able to stand up and face them.

I watch them wearily as they approach. I can't even organize my thoughts enough to fight the tributes off.

_Please get up, _Day begs quietly, her voice trembling, but there is a half-hearted note to her voice and I think she knows as well as I do that that's not going to happen.


	13. Chapter 13

**Here's chapter 13 for all you lovely readers. :) I'm taking off tomorrow for Australia with no access to a computer for nine days, so you're in for a bit of a wait after this one, sorry. But I will be back!**

It's hard, but for a moment I can forget myself and return to a place I haven't seen in weeks. In my head, I am not crouching at the mercy of two killers. Instead, when I look up and see the stout branches of the fruit tree I imagine that I'm looking into the thick foliage of the forest back home. I've never loved that place - all I've ever done is work there - but now just thinking about it makes me feel like I'm home.

Day is sniffling and quivering, holding her breath and bracing herself as if that would make the impeding pain any easier to bear. I feel like snapping at her and telling her that dying is going to hurt no matter how hard she cries, and that she should already know that, but then I realize that I'm no different. Here I am, staring up at the tree and thinking happier thoughts when I should be hauling myself to my feet and fighting the tributes off.

Day seems to sense my change of heart and stiffens, breaking off her sobbing. The world is eerily quiet as the two tributes exchange weapons, the skinny one handing the bigger one his knife. They watch me for a second, as if ensuring that I won't spring up and attack them, before the skinny one nods and the other guy picks his way toward me with a silent tread.

This is the only chance I'm going to get. I blink back waves of exhaustion and clutch the grass harder, bracing myself for the task ahead. I can hardly tell what's up and what's down anymore because of the pain screwing with my equilibrium, but I force myself to a wobbly standing position. Now, just to grab that branch and-

He's on me in a second, grabbing a fistful of hair and forcing me back to my knees. I struggle wildly, kicking and grasping for his face so that maybe I could gouge his eyes out, but he holds me firmly with meaty fingers. Day's hopes crash at the same time mine do. I hadn't thought that the tribute would move that fast; I guess I had expected them to be charitable enough to let me reach my weapon and defend myself. As he fumbles with his knife to press it against my chest I know that I won't be able to fight free. I thrash anyway, making his knife knick the shirt plastered to my skin.

"You didn't even think to defend this fruit, did you?" He breathes heavily, obviously winded from the attack. "You idiot." His chuckle is low and wheezing. He's right, though; I'd never considered that other tributes might want this easy food source. I don't want to pay for that mistake with my life, but it seems I don't have a choice. I glare back at him, considering spitting right at his pudgy nose. I would probably do it if I hadn't seen countless tributes gouged to pieces over the years for antagonizing their killers right before they died.

"We'll take over that job now. Thanks for making this so easy for us." He grins. I hope that someone does this to him when the Careers find out about this tree and come after it. These two won't stand a chance against the pack. Two against four is a terrible set of odds. They must know it, too, considering the way the smaller guy keeps glancing over his shoulder. He looks like he's expecting an ambush at any second.

"Wait," I command suddenly and stop squirming. "How long do you expect to hold this platform? An hour? If there's no other food in the arena the Careers are going to take it from you. They probably won't just push you off, either. You know how they love a good show."

His face doesn't contort in the uncertainty I had hoped for. He looks calm as he replies that that shouldn't matter to a dead tribute like myself.

I grit my teeth, frustrated. I'm no good at playing mind games, and obviously this guy isn't going to fall for my inexperienced tactics.

"You're not even a little worried?" I ask with a smirk, as if I'm confident that I'll get to watch him die from somewhere beyond this world.

"No," he says with a shrug. "But you probably should be."

I've been so preoccupied with our little struggle that I've forgotten that it only ends one way - with my death. His lame threat isn't enough to scare me, but it reminds me that I am about to disappear from this world forever. That thought sends bolts of fear straight to my stomach. I hope desperately that whatever comes after this isn't just the absence of me. Whatever may come, hell or heaven, I want to be around to experience it. I find it impossible to think that I could just stop existing.

_"I could help you."_ The words fly out of my mouth, unbidden, and I realize that all of Day's pent-up terror has just burst out in real words. Furious and more than a little worried that she was able to take control of me like that, I rush to fight her back. I wish that she was as real as this boy so that I could really hurt her, but for now I have to be content with furiously blocking her from my mind.

_No! Arden, wait!_ Her little shriek is faint, and I realize that I have actually diminished her presence in my head. _Tell them that you'll help them defend the tree so that the Careers don't kill them. Tell them, _she begs.

Without thinking first, I do as she says. "You don't want to die, do you? I'll help. I'll defend the tree for you so the Careers don't kill you. Three against four is better than two against four."

I feel dirty as soon as the words leave my mouth. To me, it sounds as if I'm begging for my life. They'll probably just kill me anyway and splatter my pieces across the grass. I'll go down as the almost-bloodbath who begged for his life before being ripped to shreds by two other guys over a tree.

When my attacker hesitates, biting his lip, I realize just how scared the two guys are of the Careers. I take advantage of his pause to rip his hands off me with my good arm and jump to my feet. The two boys immediately advance toward me, weapons hovering in the air between us, but I throw out my good arm to stop them. "I just wanted to stand up," I snap. "I'll still help you. You don't feel like getting slaughtered by the Career pack, and I don't feel like dying right now."

"He's not even armed," the skinny one laughs. "Don't get your hackles all raised, Greene."

The big guy lowers his knife, glaring at the other boy. "How do we know you won't attack us in our sleep?" He asks suspiciously.

"There are two of you," I reply flatly. After today's performance, and with a broken arm, I have no illusions of adding two more kills to my tally. I grip my twisted forearm lightly, holding it up so that it doesn't bang painfully against my side.

They seem to take notice of the arm once I hold it up and decide I'm no threat.

"Did I break that?" The big guy asks, looking almost giddy.

"Yes," I hiss out between clenched teeth. "Fix it and I might be able to defend you a little better."

"It's settled, then." The skinnier boy, who looks about 18, walks closer and appraises my bruised face. Flat black hair sweeps across his forehead, looking stark against his pale skin. His small blue eyes are sharp, mirroring the pointy angle of every joint in his body. "I'm Ray Perce, from Three."

"Tham Greene, District Ten," the big guy rumbles, following suit.

"Arden. Seven." I tell them shortly. I reach up and pluck my bags out of the tree, wrapping the cords securely around my shoulders.

_Thank you_, Day whispers fervently.

"Woah, dude here scored some bags," Greene pipes up. "Let us have a look, huh?"

I pull the bags closer to my body. "I'll help you, but I'm not giving you my bags," I snarl, fixing him with a long glare until he looks to his buddy for assistance.

"What's in them?" Ray asks coolly. He's still the one with the weapon, so after a moment a force the answer out.

"Little water bottles, some bandages. And some of the fruit." I purposely leave out the matches and vitamins, though I don't really see what good the vitamins will do.

"Nothing good," Ray shrugs. "Greene, teach him how to splint his arm. I don't want him blundering around and whimpering every time he moves his arm."

I narrow my eyes at him but allow Greene to pluck a small, straight branch from the fruit tree and explain the process of splinting a broken bone. It's clear that he doesn't know much about it, but I take what advice he can give and wrap the stick close to my arm with the rest of the bandages. The old slice on my arm objects to having the stick wrapped so closely, but I tie the stick on anyway. It doesn't feel any better - dark purple splotches are currently spreading across my skin - but I assume that this will keep it from getting worse.

Daylight is just peaking over the horizon when Ray speaks up again. "Know anything about the Careers?" He grunts, and I realize that he's talking to me.

"No," I mutter back around the mouthful of fruit I am chewing on. Except that I killed one.

"I only saw three at the Cornucopia when I was leaving," Greene interjects, bobbing his head.

"But only two were killed in the bloodbath," Ray muses. "So either one was late to the party or decided to skip out on an alliance with bloodthirsty Careers they didn't know."

The thought of one less Career makes my head spin. Without a secure pack the Careers are in danger, and any large alliance of other tributes could take them down. Then I could have a chance. In a fight against malnourished kids that haven't been trained their whole lives, I might win.

"Looks like Arden here evened the stakes nicely," Ray says, flashing me a loose grin that makes my flesh crawl. The way he slithers over my name reminds me that I'm pretty much a prisoner now, and that this is no alliance. I don't actually have two people on my side. They'll feed me to the Careers without a second thought.

Sizing them up now, though, I wonder how they ever could have trapped me like this. Ray, who looks like he's running the show, is twig-skinny and, despite the intelligence in his eyes, is clearly nothing more than the average tribute from Three. Greene's bigger than me, but most of his bulk isn't muscle. He's obviously too stupid to make his own decisions, though his eager bloodlust is a little worrisome. Really, they're just a subpar version of the brains and the brawn.

Even with numbers on their side, I could probably take them. That is, I could if my arm wasn't completely mutilated. Right now I don't even have a fighting chance.

So what is there to do? I'm completely at their mercy here on our little island, with nowhere to run. I may have bought a few more days, but when the Careers come or when these two grow tired of me, I'm finished. Ray gives me a close look, as if reading my thoughts, and I decide that I'll keep as close to them as I can and watch their every move until I find a way out of this mess.

_At least we're still alive, _Day thinks, and her voice sounds genuinely happy for a moment. One more day, for me, is just prolonging the inevitable. For me, a day in this arena is just another stretch of time to worry about when and how I'll die. But to her, after being killed once, just being alive up in my head must be a miracle.

_Yeah, _I concede grudgingly. For now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Oh no! School tomorrow! As I'm sure you all know, school can be a major crippler for a story. I'm determined, though, more so than I ever have been with one of my fanfictions. I have no problem writing whatever I can down during class. So, even though we may experience a slow down, this story is going to make it. :P Here's one last summer harrah. Enjoy, and if you did like it (or not) feel free to drop me some feedback. It really makes my day.**

"Arden, you're a tree kid, right?" Ray asks lazily, though I'm sure that he hasn't forgotten in the space of an hour that I am, in fact, from District 7.

I give him a long, blank look and he seems to realize that I'm not going to answer.

"Climb up there and drop us some fruit."

This has become my existence –listening to Ray and Greene chatter and gathering fruit for them that they could clearly reach themselves. I don't know how to defy them without a weapon, though, so I reluctantly scale the side of the tree and dislodge several of the round green fruits. Most thump harmlessly to the ground, but I'm sure to peg Greene in the head with one.

"Hey!" Greene shouts, running a hand over his stubbly brown hair. Ray shoots me a glare and I back off, avoiding his gaze as I drop down from the branches. Greene takes a wounded bite of one of the fruits and stares at the ground. He looks downright offended, though I don't know why he'd be surprised that I took the opportunity to hit him.

I've only been an official part of their alliance for five hours now, but I already feel like they're growing tired of me. They don't trust me, either, if the constant watch Ray keeps on me is any inclination. This alliance, I figure, is going to kill me before any real threat does.

But I don't see a way out. Without a weapon I'm helpless; even if I managed to grab another tree branch I doubt that it would stand up against Ray's knife. Running, then, seems to be my only option. Even running, though, looks impossible. I can only run for so far before I have to crawl across those wires to reach another platform. With a broken arm I can't see how I'm going to do that. I can hang on with my good arm and maybe reclaim the handcuffs that Ray and Greene stole, but there's still the problem of moving forward. I don't know if I could pull myself along with my broken arm.

I slump back against the trunk of the tree, seething and running a hand through my matted hair. The hair really needs to be hacked off before I start snagging on all the trees I pass. I need Ray's knife to do that, and clearly he would not hand it over.

Ray's knife. It holds all the power in this alliance. It's just too easy for him to cut me into pieces with it, even though he's not trained. I don't even know how he got the thing, being from Three in the first place. District Three kids are always bloodbaths.

That in particular frustrates me to the point of wanting to rip my hair out myself. District Seven always has a chance if the tributes worked in the forest and not the mills, but not District Three. They're pathetically useless – the wimpiest of all the districts, but not even smart like Five.

So why am I being held captive by one of them?

I set my shoulders angrily and pluck at a twig as I watch Ray and Greene move around camp. Hours pass uneventfully, the silence filled by the sound of aimless chewing as we continue to munch on the fruit. I'm plotting, determined not to let these two beat me, when the first cannon of the day rings out. We all jump to our feet, scanning for what surely must be the Career pack.

There. In one of the platforms, not even two platforms away from us, a girl's face pokes out of the weeds. Gold hair coils around her cheeks, dirtied by mud that I assume she used to try to conceal the bright color. Her green eyes are huge, framed by thick lashes, and I immediately decide that she must be a Career. None of the other tributes would look that good.

Besides, she's carrying a wickedly curved blade that's dark up to the hilt with black blood. Her hands are clean, though; right down to her perfect fingernails. My stomach turns – must have been an easy kill if she could keep her hands dry.

She straightens from her crouch and I see that she's the tall and willowy girl that I saw in the hallway of the train. She smiles cheerfully and sweeps her hair out of her way, oblivious to the three of us now scrambling for cover on our own platform.

She looks genuinely happy as the hovercraft appears to collect her kill. Not in a sadistic way – like she enjoyed the job – but that she's one step closer to winning. It's a relieved smile that crosses her lips. The smile is charming, which can't be an act since she doesn't know anyone's watching her.

"Go! Throw Arden out there, quick!" It's Greene's desperate mumble, and I remember the idiots hiding with me in the tree.

"Hey!" I snap in a hushed voice. "She doesn't even know we're here yet."

Ray reluctantly agrees and we all freeze, watching her without breathing. If she turns and sees us in the tree, we're done. She doesn't appear to be too interested in hunting us down, though, and as the hovercraft begins to lift the body she leaps onto another wire with her handcuffs and disappears into one of the four huge platforms, this one decorated like a thick forest.

"Damn," Greene whistled under his breath, and it's such an absurd time to be mooning after girls that I want to hit him.

The dead tribute is also a girl, but she's considerably less impressive than her killer. She's skin and bones, pale with only a single smear of blood on her chest to mar the white slab of her skin. A clean kill.

Sleek auburn hair trails down her back as she is lifted and that's what makes me remember. She's the girl that was on the plate beside me at the launch, with her hands over her ears. I had assumed that she was crazy.

_Probably her, um, voice drove her mad, _Day squeaks, and it's a rude awakening that she's still up there. It wouldn't surprise me if that was what happened, though. It nearly happened to me.

_Shut up, _I think back halfheartedly, the obligatory response to the girl haunting my thoughts.

"I think it's ok to get down," Greene announces tentatively, his thick voice warbling.

Ray nods and we slide down slowly. I, of course, get pushed down first in case the Career is still lurking around. I don't bother trying to get the snagged leaves out of my hair and glare at my two allies as they hit the ground.

"Right!" Greene quips cheerfully. "What now?"

Ray shoots Greene a look, and he shuts up. Greene's eyes light up and he nods eagerly, like he's just catching on to some secret. It makes me immediately suspicious, and I watch them closely as they move off to another corner of our platform to chatter on. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I have good reason not to trust them. They could be plotting my death.

It has to be tonight. Screw my arm, I'll just deal with the pain and pull myself along with it on one of the wires.

Ray and Greene don't talk long before they separate again and Greene hauls himself up in the tree for what I assume is an early nap. The sun hasn't even set yet, but we're all tired and frayed from the encounter with the Career.

When he starts talking, I realize that I was wrong. "You having fun tonight?" He asks. Bewildered, I look up. No one's above him; Ray and I are still on the ground. No one answers him, but he goes on. "Well, I had fun. Until that Career showed up, that is." He shudders. Then he laughs, nodding his head emphatically. "Yeah! I know." Stupid adoration clouds his eyes, making them shine in the light of the setting sun.

Ray turns toward the tree abruptly, staring at Greene with rodent eyes. "Who are you talking to?" He snaps.

"Her!" Greene laughs, as if it's obvious. "She's really funny."

"Shut up!" Ray snarls. "Don't talk to it. You know I've told you not to."

I look at him, startled, and I realize what he's talking about.

"But…she's so quiet," he insists. "I was trying to make conversation. She seems lonely."

"Enough!" Ray's face is red, vibrant under his black hair, and it strikes me that he must feel the same way about the voices that I do. While it doesn't make me like him any more, at least I know that he suffers the same way I do. I feel oddly vindicated, but odder still is how now the three of us are connected by something I hadn't thought about before. We all hear voices.

Greene's reaction to whoever his voice is convinces me even more of his stupidity. There's a girl _inside his head _and he wants to make _friends? _It's disgusting. I feel suddenly angry at him. Angry because he's stupid enough to let that dead girl take over. Angry because he doesn't realize that that girl is the enemy. Angry because I'm jealous, in an obscure way, of the way he is. Jealous that he can be happy while I don't think I'll ever be right again.

I huff, nose wrinkled up in fury, and turn away from the conversation. If I had a weapon, I could kill him. Take his life and hers too. Then I could waltz out of here, free, and never have to listen to Greene chatter on like this. I could go home.

Day shrinks away, retreating to the back of my mind. I can feel her fear, immediate and fresh. After being somewhat tolerant towards her for the past day or so, she must not have expected this new wave of hatred. But I don't care. She's just like Greene's voice. She's the enemy. I can't let myself forget that. And when I get out of here, I'll find a way to get rid of her, too.

Cold sweeps the back of my neck, and I realize that the prickling sensation is a part of the odd connection between Day and I. I'm feeling her fear as she might have once. As the cold intensifies and shoots down my back, I feel like curling in on myself. It feels so real that I can't tell our emotions apart anymore. And it's that confusion that makes me reconsider what I had just thought. She really doesn't want to die, so much so that she's willing to stay inside of a stranger's head just to cling to life. I'm sure those two feel the same way. As much as I hate them, I can't just take their lives. In fact, I don't think I could anyway. Could I kill someone? I killed that District Two girl, technically, but I hadn't really thought about the consequences at the time.

I'm not going to kill them just because I was mad at Greene. There's no way I even could. When I escape, I'll sneak away. No stealing their weapon. Someone else can kill them, but I just can't see myself doing that. Impossible.

The Capitol anthem makes me jerk out of my thoughts abruptly. In all the commotion, I hadn't noticed how dark the half-dusk had gotten. Tense now that I know how close my escape is getting, I fold my arms and look to the sky. Today two faces light the sky.

The first is a skinny brunette with huge, empty eyes and hollow cheek bones. District Nine. I only heard one cannon today, though, and I saw the girl that that cannon belonged to. She had auburn hair, and she looked nothing like this girl. Why is this girl up here?

I wrack my brain for answers, convinced of some sort of screw up in the Capitol, when I remember the cannon that went off last night during the announcement of the bloodbaths. They must have decided to announce her death today instead of rearranging the announcement last night.

_They don't announce the ones that died with them, _Day pipes up tremulously. I can tell that she's still nervous about speaking to me, but I just ignore her. _Their voices would have died, too._

Next is the girl I recognize, the one that the golden hair girl killed. She looks much better in this picture than she did last night, dangling limply from the hook of the hovercraft.

Greene speaks up. "That's my District partner," he mumbles, as if we couldn't see the 10 dominating the other side of the screen.

"Did you know her?" Ray speaks up, surprising me. Is he really being human and asking about how Greene might feel?

"No," Greene replies, his voice thick like the syrup we can rarely afford. Every word that comes out of his mouth is slow like this, hesitant and stupid.

"Good," Ray snorts. "If you had known her, it would have been really stupid not to ally with her."

Once again, I'm wrong about him.

The screen disappears again and leaves us in the dark.

When the dark grows just a little more, enough to cover my escape, I'm out of here.


	15. Chapter 15

**I feel so accomplished after writing this thing during calculus and still getting it done. I think that this is the pace you guys can expect for updates from now on. :) As for now, onward to the chapter.**

Ray and Greene, for all their paranoia, are too assured of their invincibility to hold me here. With that knife it's true that they have the upper hand, but the knife will do nothing if I'm halfway to another platform. They can't stop me tonight. They won't. The only reason I haven't left sooner is that I've been waiting for them to fall 're just lucky that I'm leaving without trying to kill them first.

True to form, Greene nods off first. Ray kicks me out of the tree so that he can fit up there too, so I'm left stranded on the ground. Despite the danger of being stuck on the ground, it's exactly what I want. I can steal away without a sound. I watch them as surreptitiously as I can as Ray perches in the branches above Greene, obviously not too eager to go anywhere near him tonight.

I don't understand how Greene doesn't fall out. All night he sways, making the branches creak with him. In fact, he's so big that I really hope that he doesn't snap his branch and land on me. He snores, which I'd think would attract potential Careers lurking nearby, but Ray either doesn't realize or doesn't care.

He stays up much longer than Greene, watching the platforms in the distance but not sparing me any glances. I can only assume that, judging by the intense expression on his face, he's not going to try to go to sleep any time soon.

I'm not normally patient, but I'm willing to wait out this game, and eventually I win. He fixes me with a short glare before settling himself in the crook of some branches and closing his eyes.

I wait, again, and watch the two in the tree. Ray's breathing evens out and I finally stand, padding around camp and snapping twigs to see if they were just pretending to sleep and watching me instead. No one stirs, and I almost laugh at how paranoid I'm being. I snag the cuffs off a branch of a tree, where they were carelessly placed, and that's when all hell breaks loose. "Greene! Wake up!" Ray snaps and launches himself out of his perch in the tree.

"He's being disobedient," Ray shouts as he steadies himself and advances toward me, holding the knife out at arm's length. "He's no use to us anymore. Let's just add another kill to our tally."

I wish I could tell him how wrong he's holding the knife, outstretched like he's afraid of it. I wish I could sneer and tell him that he's probably never even hurt a fly, let alone killed someone in the Games. I wish I could remind him that he's a Three and, unlike District 7 tributes, he doesn't have a chance. But I don't have that kind of time. He still has a knife, and I'm sick of messing around.

Greene stumbles down from the tree, looking blinded by sleep. "…but…" he protests, rubbing his eyes. "I thought…the Careers…"

"Shut up!" Ray cuts him off. "I told-"

I take the opportunity and do the only thing I can think of. I swing the other end of the handcuffs at Ray, and the metal cuff clunks him squarely in the forehead. He reels back, more from surprise than anything, and I run for the wire while I still can. I take a precious moment to crouch and attach myself to the wire as they advance, then I push off from land and fly into the air.

When the cuff catches me I shout in sudden pain, surprised that the fall hasn't dislocated my shoulder. Of course, I didn't think about that when I jumped. I grab the thick wire with my handcuffed hand and let the injured arm dangle, uncertain. I can hear the two guys shouting at the edge of the platform, but my leap carried me far enough away that they wouldn't be able to stab me unless they wanted to throw the knife, their only defense against the Careers.

Still, I'm vulnerable here, so I grit my teeth and brace myself before raising the broken arm and clutching the golden wire. The pain is not as bad as I thought it would be; I suppose because my arm's splinted and I'm not actually holding myself up with it.

"But, the Careers!" Someone wails behind me. "Don't leave!"

"Shut. Up," Ray growls under his breath.

I grab the wire about a foot ahead of me and begin to drag myself along. Only when the noise of commotion fades behind me do I look back. I've travelled about halfway across the wire, but they're still standing there. They stand, side by side, watching my solemnly as I travel. I don't know what they're thinking, but I hope I never have to hear from them again to find out. Greene's upper lip is trembling slightly; he looks terrified. Ray just looks blank, but his fists are clenched at his sides.

_Bye, _Day whispers. Jubilant triumph is surging through her, making us both a bit light headed. We made it. We have a chance in the Hunger Games. I smirk back at them once before swinging myself forward again. Day cheers, then I can nearly feel her smile. _Thanks, Arden._

She's thanking me for getting her out alive, I guess. But I didn't do it for her. I did it for me, and she just happened to tag along. _Shut up, _I grumble, to keep her in line, but I think she understands that I don't mean it harshly.

Only now, with all this distance, can I look forward. In the darkness of pre-dawn the looming platform ahead looks ominous, but I know that it's lucky that this wire is taking me to one of the four huge platforms. It's true that there are probably Careers lurking on this platform. It's true that I'll find more dangerous tributes here. But on the smaller platforms I'd be a sitting duck. Here, at least, in this forested platform, I can run and hide instead of crawling on these wires forever.

I haul myself out of the air, struggling against the solid ground of the platform for leverage to pull myself onto land. I look down, head pounding as I get a good look at my new platform. It's several yards thick, and flat on the bottom before it falls away to just air. I feel chills as I think about stepping into something like sand and just falling right through. How did they even get a platform like this to just hover here? I don't see any wires suspending it or anything.

_I've never seen anything like this, _Day whispers, awed.

_The Capitol can do anything, _I answer bitterly.

_Not when I was alive, _she replies, sounding sad.

Just how long ago did she die? The Capitol has been like this – so advanced – for as long as I can remember. In fact, I can't remember a "Day" in any Hunger Games that I've seen. She's not recent.

I retreat from the edge, sick of imagining falling into that void. It looks clean to just disintegrate like that, but this is the Hunger Games. There would be no easy way out. I suspect that that death would be the worst of all.

_What do we do now? _Day asks, obviously feeling confident enough to talk to me, but I ignore her. This is still my Games. I don't exactly know what happens next. For now, I'm just waiting for the sun to rise.

Dawn's not far off, so after setting up temporarily in one of the tallest trees I can find I have nothing to do but watch the ground below and swing my pair of handcuffs idly. I know that now, while everything is calm, I should be strategizing. But for some reason I can't bring myself to do anything but stare at the ground. Thinking's not going to help me, but the sunlight will. With that, I can see and set up a camp. I'm incredibly thirsty now, but there must be water somewhere on this platform. Hunger hasn't kicked in yet because of all the fruit I've gorged myself on, but that will pass soon and even those fruits haven't kept me in the best shape. Then again, it's only day three. Things are sure to get much worse.

I'll find water and food and settle down. No one's hunting me down, as far as I know, and I don't need to chase anyone, so I don't really have to do much. Everything feels too easy, like I'm not even in the Hunger Games after the threat of Ray and Greene has passed. I could be sitting back home right now, taking a break from work.

With every twig that breaks, though, I spring up, paranoid. Every time I hear a birdcall I start, convinced that it's a distant scream. I haven't forgotten where I am, or how dangerous the arena always gets. I haven't heard any cannons as the sun rises, and since I see almost no movement, I assume that the Capitol is getting bored. If nothing else, the Gamemakers will be screwing with us soon.

But I don't understand the new horror that the Gamemakers have set on us until it's too late to prepare. As the sun crawls inches higher, the warmth I associate with daytime doesn't come. In the arena so far, the temperature has been stable and perfectly unnoticeable, but as the sky gets brighter it only gets colder.

I fight panic as I wrap the thin jacket I was provided with tighter around myself. I've seen what temperature can do in the arena. It's always designed to cripple tributes, and that they picked cold as the extreme makes me nervous.

District 7 can be accurately classified as a warm district. It's sunny year round, though hardly any light penetrates our forest. Our summer isn't brutally hot, but our winter hardly ever dips into cold, and when it does most people celebrate. I hate those days, though. I'm not wired to deal with cold after years of sweating it out with an axe and an endless swathe of trees in front of me. The heat is like an old friend, even though it just makes work harder.

As I decide that the sun is high enough in the sky to make it officially morning, there's no improvement in the cold. Instead, I can feel the cold steadily descend far past District 7's coolest temperatures. I rub my arms, trying to force the warmth back into them. Uneasy, I jump out of the tree and pace back and forth.

Where are all the other tributes? I know there must be some on this platform. It's not freezing yet, but I assume that they're as cold as I am. What will we all do if it gets any colder?

I shiver, my will to find a real camp gone with the frigid breeze. I don't want to go traipsing off into the woods if it gets colder. I'm probably safer here than I would be deeper in. I'll just have to wait it out here. Surely the Gamemakers won't keep this up for long. And I can at least get something done during this waiting period. I grab the thickest low lying limb I can find and snap it off, hoisting it in my hands. It's about as thick as my fist and the only weapon I have.

By noon it's certifiably freezing. My teeth are chattering and I desperately want water, but water would probably just freeze in my throat now. Thick clouds run across the sky, finally settling over what I assume is the extent of the arena's sky. I catch tiny, nubile snowflakes on my tongue, but it does nothing but freeze my tongue. I'm considering going inland to find water before it all freezes over, but then the first cannon fires. Every head in the arena would have swiveled in panic, on alert for the Career pack. After a second of searching the still foliage, I think that the danger is past. Then I hear the anguished wail, the shout in Greene's voice, and the second cannon.

It's them. The Career pack found them. And their platform is only a short wire away from the platform I'm on right now.

I turn to run, plunging blindly into branches that snag and catch at me. But I won't let them slow me down. I'm wild with fear, imminent death on my heels, and I finally understand what the Hunger Games really is.

I see the fire ahead, a spark in the cold to fixate on as I run.

I don't connect the fire with the person that must have lit it.

The fire gets closer, teasing warmth with its colors. I see the girl squeezing herself as far into the warmth as she can.

I see her shake, snow and blue billowing on her cheeks.

I see her eyes as she turns and meets mine. I see her stand, sudden movement as breath puffs from her cheeks in an exhale of surprise.

I see a glint, a short blade in closed fists.

I panic.

I don't see how small she is, or the fear in her eyes.

I see her hand, only her hand, wrapped around that knife.

I don't see who she is, or the family she has back home.

And I do it.

My branch, thick as my forearm, cracks against her skull, and the crack is louder than any cannon I've ever heard.


	16. Chapter 16

**We're still trucking. Woohoo! Chapter 16, here we come. Sorry it took a little while; this chapter was originally 2,000 words longer before I ruthlessly deleted half of it. :) I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. If you do (or if not), a review would make my day.**

I watch her crumple to the ground, frozen in place. All I can see is the flash of her eyes as they close and the place where her hair snagged on my weapon.

I hit her. I can't believe I hit her.

She's still now; face down in the cold dirt. Snowflakes are settling in her hair and I'm numb as I watch.

I'm waiting for the cannon. Please, don't fire. Please. I haven't killed her; I can't have killed her.

And it doesn't fire. The air is tense with static, but the arena is silent. She's not dead.

I run my hands through my hair, sick with relief, and crouch to check her pulse. Her wrist is thin and pale, and I don't really know how fast or slow the pulse is supposed to be, but I can feel her heartbeat under my fingers.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I should be hoping she's dead, or finishing her off now. One less tribute to worry about. But she can only be fourteen, and attacking her like that has shaken me past the point of logic.

I sit back, still shaking from the cold, and move closer to her fire. It sputters, catching the wet little snowflakes. I watch the flames move, sucked in by the little sphere of heat. I lost my matches when I left Greene and Ray, so this could be the only fire I see in the arena, and I desperately want this warmth. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad place to stay, at least for a little while. I could wait for her to wake up and make sure she's ok.

Maybe, if she can accept the apology of the guy who bashed her head with a stick, we could even be allies.

The thought is unrealistic, but I feel like I need to repay her for doing something so horrible to her. And if I could have an ally – a real one – maybe we could make it. She can obviously make fires, and I have the pair of handcuffs. Besides, if I just left her here she would make an easy target for even the weakest of tributes.

I look over at her, lying in the dirt, so far away from the heat of the fire. I can see her breathing tiny little puffs, but her lips are blue and her hair is coated in a fine layer of snow. She could freeze to death lying there.

I make up my mind and stand, uncurling my stiff fingers. I look at her uncertainly, still uneasy about touching her despite our situation. But I awkwardly shift her closer to the fire and roll her onto her back so that her face isn't in the dirt. It looks awful to just leave her lying there, but I can't think of anything else to do. I look at her, still wracked with guilt, and wonder who she really is.

Day is quiet, solemnly watching the girl with me. I can tell that she's nervous now, taken aback by my violence. I think that she forgives me, though, now that I'm sitting with the girl and making sure that she's ok. Day's forgiveness is not a priority, really, but it makes me feel better that she's not completely terrified of me.

But what everyone else thinks about this is a different sort of problem. What about sponsors? Will they think I'm weak for regretting nearly killing her, or that I'm compassionate enough to try and help her after my mistake? I don't know, and I don't really care. I just have to do something to fix this.

My family back home – they must be alarmed after watching me try to kill someone. I can't picture their reactions, but I'm glad that I can't. I feel sick just thinking about it. Her family, at least, must feel a little better after watching me make amends for what I did.

Her fire dies a little more with every passing minute as the snow gets heavier. It sputters, fighting against increasingly damp logs, but it was only ever a small fire to start with. I don't think that it will last much longer.

I'm still not warm, but after accidentally setting the sleeve of my jacket on fire I back up to setting the rest of me on fire. It's then that the hunger and thirst rear up so strongly that I can't take it any longer. The snow is only dusting the ground, still not enough to scoop and drink, so my only choice is to scavenge in her bag.

I never wanted to touch her things after already hurting her, but I crack and grab the bag. _I'll replace it later, _I convince myself. _When we're allies. _

She doesn't have much, just a few matches and her knife, but the food and water she has is enough to make me sigh in relief. I devour the fried fruit chunks first, and even though I try to leave her some, I can't help but eat it all and still want more. I hold back from draining her water bottle, convinced that I'll be able to drink some snow later. I feel like I could take on the world after I finish, despite how guilty I feel, and if the cold just went away I would probably stand a chance.

As the minutes tick on, though, the only thing that starts disappearing is my fire. It's down to just a few charred logs now, and little more than smoke is coming off. My teeth chatter as I check the girl's pulse again. It seems slower, but that might just be my numb fingers. The skin under my nails is actually a dark purple, a change from healthy pink brought on by the cold.

The thickness of the clouds casts a gloomy light on the whole arena, making it seem more like dusk than the middle of the day, and it only gets darker as the clouds thicken impossibly, casting fatter snowflakes down on my head. There's a good inch of snow on the ground now, enough for me to lick off of my fingers. It tastes strange, which makes me wonder what the Gamemakers might have put in it. I don't know whether or not to brush it off of the girl, but it feels too intrusive though I'm sure she's cold.

I don't think it can get any colder. It must be below zero now, judging by the blue tint to my knuckles and finger tips. I can't bend the joints anymore, and I stopped trying after my thumb locked into place. I wonder, for the first time, whether I'm going to die in the Hunger Games simply because of the cold. I didn't think that, whatever happened, it would be this anticlimactic. As another hour draws on, though, it seems more and more realistic. I've stopped trying to check the girl's pulse now, too tired and stiff to reach over. The fire's gone, swallowed up by the snow that's turned dingy gray in the shadows.

I can hear Day, for the first time since the attack, but her voice is weak. _Hey, Arden? _She whispers. _Isn't there any way you can get…warm?_ Her voice breaks.

_What do you think? _I snap back weakly. _Why does it even matter to you? _

_I can feel it, _she whimpers back. _It hurts._

I pause, struggling. The cold is too brutal for me to think, and how slow my mind is responding scares me. I don't know if that means I'm dying.

_Just how…_I fight back against exhaustion and push on, _how much can you feel?_

_Everything. _Her voice is timid, like she knows that's not what I want to hear. Like she knows just how creepy it is that she can feel every movement I make like she's a part of me. I've always known she could feel something, but I wasn't aware of how connected she was to me.

I don't respond for a minute. It's too hard. _Sorry._

My apology makes her laugh feebly. _I know it's not your fault. I've just never been this…cold before._

_No, _I say abruptly. _For all of this. I'm sorry that any of this ever happened to you. _And I mean it. I may be too cold to think straight, but I do know that it's wrong for a twelve year old girl to have to live out the Hunger Games twice.

She's quiet for a minute. _Oh._ _Why?_

_I'd rather die than be stuck in someone else's head. _The thought alone makes me bristle. I want all of me, or nothing. I don't want to be someone else's parasite, powerless to do anything but watch.

_No! _Her tiny voice is distressed. _I'm glad._ _For me, this is another chance. You know?_

I don't say anything for a moment. _That's a pretty cheap second chance._

Our conversation is over as abruptly as it began, and I'm relieved when we lapse back into silence. Talking with Day always feels like defeat.

But after our talk passes, I'm reminded of my situation and how badly this could end. I'm alone again, and the cold finds its way into the cracks Day left. Every minute feels like a fight, even just to breathe in air that's too frosty for my lungs.

But I've fought all my life. I've fought just to have a life. And I'm not going to let all of that go to waste. This part of the Hunger Games is more of a game than anything else I've experienced so far. Now it's a game of strength and determination, not so much about fighting the other tributes. If I can only outlast the others, I'm sure that the Gamemakers will let up on the cold. They surely don't want to slaughter the whole field of tributes; just one or two. All I have to do is not die first.

Before, I dreaded the cannons. Now, as the waiting game begins, all I want to hear is a cannon firing. A cannon means my life, even if it costs someone else's. Right now, I'm willing to let someone else die if it just means getting out of this cold. Before I would never have thought that, but now I see how the Hunger Games changes people. It's a form of torture more than anything, and torture always makes even the most resilient of victims crack.

I think about trying to revive the very dead fire, but I doubt I'd be able to light the damp twigs lying around me or even strike a match in the first place. My fingers feel too thick to do anything. It scares me when I can't move my fingers, but I convince myself that any damage done to them won't be permanent. If I can just get out of the cold, everything will be resolved. It's irrational to think that temperature will solve all of my problems, but when the cold is this bad I can't think of anything worse that could happen to me. If I get out of this, I will be able to stand anything.

And there's the cannon.

It sounds slower and quieter to me, as if the temperature has dulled my senses, but it's still undoubtedly a cannon. I exhale an icy gust in relief and push my snowy hair out of my eyes. I made it. Day's cheering, too, and I can't begrudge her her happiness. We're both going to make it.

Day's cheers suddenly break off, and a sense of _wrong _washes over both of us. _Arden, _she begins in a wavering voice. _Can you check her pulse?_

I'd forgotten about the girl, but now that I've heard the cannon I panic, scrambling creakily over to her. Light blue, like bruises, blossoms faintly over her eyelids. Her lips aren't moving, and when I see that I know that she's dead. She's the one that the cannon fires for.

I check her pulse woodenly, but I already know. The utter lack of movement in her veins only confirms it.

The cannon doesn't seem so valuable now. Now I wish I had never heard it. "I'm sorry," I croak, and my rasping voice seems too loud in the snowy arena.

I did this. I killed her. I brush the snow off her hair dazedly and rock back on my heels, trying to remember what possibly could have made me do this to her. This wasn't letting a Career slip from the wires in the bloodbath. This was an actual kill in cold blood.

I don't know how to deal with this. Nothing makes sense anymore. And because I can't handle it, I have no choice but to slowly stand and walk away.


	17. Chapter 17

**Argh! I wrote the hard copy of this chapter and the next, but both were unfortunately stranded elsewhere until tonight. I decided to proofread pretty quickly, as well, to get it out faster, so if you notice anything awkward or just plain wrong, I wouldn't be surprised. Sorry about the wait, but I hope you'll enjoy this chapter all the same. It's a little longer than usual; maybe that will make up for it. :) Onward to chapter 17!**

As I predicted, with the death of the girl I hit the temperature slowly sails upward. The ground turns to mud as the snow melts, and as mushy drops plunk down from tree limbs it sounds like it's raining. It's a dreary soundtrack as I trek forward, but I think it's kind of fitting. My thoughts are scattered as I walk, and I'm too numb to gather them and make sense of it all, but I do know that killing that girl has affected me more profoundly than I ever thought it could.

Even the relief from the cold is not as good as I thought it would be now that I have her death on my shoulders. Her bag is slung over my shoulder, banging against my side and singing of guilt. I knew it was wrong, but I took her things even after I killed her. She doesn't have much, but I'll never forget her when I'm carrying her knife. And even though I hate myself for taking her bag, I can't help but think that that's fitting, too. I deserve to think about her for the rest of my life. I can't forget what I've done.

The sun is still not high in the sky. It's only the middle of Day 3, and already so many are dead. I don't know who's next. I still hope that it's not me, but I'm not so sure that I wouldn't deserve it.

I don't know where I'm going, but I keep walking anyway. I could even be stepping into a trap, but I'm so sick of standing still that it doesn't matter. Besides, I want to be as far away from my last campsite as possible.

And, as guilty as I am about it, I still have her knife. If I was to meet another tribute I could fend them off. I can't think past shielding myself, though. I desperately don't want to kill anyone, but after hitting the girl I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep my head. My best hope is to stay away from the other tributes entirely and let them finish each other off.

My arm stings as I walk, jarred by all the commotion. Greene did a good job splinting it, but it's still broken and I can feel the angry break as the bones slide. I need more fabric to wrap it tighter, but after that cold period I'm not going to rip anything off my sleeves. I'll just have to keep it still.

I stop for a moment to position my arm, and as I do I hear the soft squelch of footstep in the mud that don't belong to me. It's paranoid of me, and I could have just imagined the sound, but I turn abruptly to check.

Her golden curls give her away, despite how they're matted down and smeared with mud. She peeks out from behind a nearby tree, her eyes unusually bright. She doesn't look alarmed at being caught; she looks curious.

"Well, he found us," she says, seemingly nonchalant.

I glare at her, running my fingers over the hilt of my knife. She grins in response, holding up her own curved blade. It's longer than my forearm and far outclasses my nubby knife. I feel sick as I watch her, remembering the clean kill she made earlier, when Greene and Ray and I watched from the safety of our platform. She's one of the Careers, and judging by the way she just called out, the others are with her.

I should've covered my tracks in the mud. I should have paid more attention. I should have known that this girl really was a threat. I should have-

She runs at me, swinging her blade in a precise arc that would have taken my arm off if I hadn't jumped out of the way. Desperately, I stab at her as she passes and miss.

She turns back to look at me and blinks in surprise. A smile pops across her lips, making me queasy. I know all about the things Careers do to their victims for their own entertainment, and this girl looks like she's ready to do something awful to me.

"I may need your help after all," she calls out again, and I duck out of the way as she comes at me. This time she doesn't go past me, though, and it's much harder to avoid her next blow. I know that I don't have a chance against her and the rest of her Career buddies, but maybe I can incapacitate her long enough to run.

Holding my breath, I plunge closer to her in one jump and stab blindly. Her hair is all over me as I bring my arm down, and all I can see is the gold halo for a moment. Her swing stops and she looks quizzically down at the back of her hand, which sports a tiny wound and bright blood trickling down onto her palm. I hurry backwards, disentangling us and putting myself at a safe distance. My knife is clutched almost painfully between white knuckles, but I hardly notice as I watch her. I got her. Now if I could just run fast enough to outpace the others.

"Huh," she muses, stopping me. "You're a fiery one, aren't cha? Too bad you don't have any skill with that knife. You could be useful." She sounds wistful, not malicious, and I'm confused by her demeanor. She seems to genuinely regret that I wasn't able to do any real damage. I can't figure her out.

"You could still do, though," she says, looking into my eyes with her own wide ones. She's not attacking me anymore, so I hover indecisively. Maybe it's stupid, but her last words have gotten to me. That I could still do? What does that even mean? There's no way I'll ever do anything for her. I'll never let anyone use me ever again. And because of that, I can't stop the words that fly out of my mouth.

"What do you mean?" I challenge, and it's a feral growl that comes out when I speak, surprising me.

"Still spunky," she says, looking delighted. "Anyway, I mean that you might be good for us." She pauses. "What do you think about that, Roe?" It's clear that she's not talking to me, but there's no immediate response. Instead, a thin girl steps out of the forest behind the Career and I wonder why I hadn't noticed her before.

As she gets closer, I recognize her yet again. The only girl with black hair in the arena, and she's not even a real tribute. She looks at me with muddy brown eyes and I notice without meaning to that her skin is less pale after her time in the arena, making the freckles across her nose stand out less. Her thin hair hangs loose around her face, outlining her sharp cheeks and standing in dark contrast against her white skin, and I wonder how she got to be so pale. Mostly anyone who lives in the Districts works outside at least some of the time.

How is she still alive? I know that they used her to replace the original tribute that died back on the train, but surely she wasn't meant to actually be a contender in the Games. Won't people notice that she's not quite the same person? Any Capitol citizen that's had their eye on her will know. What happens when someone notices that this girl's just a replacement? I don't see at all how the Capitol is letting this happen.

She looks awkward, holding her hands in front of her and biting her lip, but her eyes are defiant. "I don't know. I thought we had…other plans." She sounds slightly apologetic as she says it, and I understand exactly what those plans were.

"Yeah," the Career acknowledges, sweeping her hair back. "But he's a little spitfire." She smiles blindingly at me and her teeth are too white. "If we gave him a good weapon…" Her eyebrows waggle.

This is all too confusing. "What's going on?" I demand, and both girls turn to stare at me, as if they've forgotten than I'm even there.

"She wants you in our alliance," the black-haired girl explains, releasing her lip and staring at me matter-of-factly.

"_She _wants you," the Career repeats, laughing. "Classy, Roe."

"Well, I don't know him," Roe says simply.

"I didn't know you!" The Career argues, and I'm struck by how odd it is that they're having this conversation while I'm standing here. In fact, I don't even know while I'm still standing here.

"Hey," I interrupt. "I'm not interested in being anyone's ally." It's a lie. I want an ally more than anything else in these Games. I want a real ally, someone who actually cares about what happens to me, and who I can care about in return. I want someone to lean on. I don't want it to be me against the world for the rest of this fight. That's never going to happen, though. Not with these girls, who have already ambushed me. Not with this strange Career. I just need to make my retreat and live another day.

"You'll change your mind," the Career quips cheerfully, like she didn't even hear me. Roe looks disgruntled as the other girl strides over to me and grabs my wrist.

I jerk back, but the Career girl has a locked grip on my arm. "I'm Coral, by the way," she tells me. "Who're you?"

"Wait a second!" I snap, pulling my arm free. "Stop touching me." I'm still sensitive about that. "Look, I never agreed to be in your alliance." This situation is starting to remind me of Ray and Greene too much to be comfortable.

"Just a second, Coral," Roe sighs, and I look over to her. She's much shorter than me, but her shoulders are set back in a way that makes me think that there's more to her than the chapped skin on her lower lip from where she's bitten it so many times. "Why do you want him so badly? He's obviously not interested. Just drop it."

Coral's eyebrows shoot up. "He should be interested." She dashes into the tree line, which I think is strange, but Roe is obviously a veteran of the way the girl acts and only shrugs.

"Sorry about her," Roe says dryly. "She gets like this sometimes." Her arms cross defensively across her chest, and I can tell that she's uncomfortable about being left alone with me. She's still brave enough to apologize for her ally, though, and that surprises me.

"Well," I say after a pause. "I'm just going to…" I step back suggestively, running a hand through my hair. I want to get out of here before Coral returns. Roe nods, looking relieved, and shoos me onward. I'm more than eager to comply, and I'm just about to disappear when Coral reappears on scene, lugging a few very full bags. She dumps them on the ground at her feet as she stops.

"Hey. Boy," she says. "Look what we have. Food. You look kinda skinny, you know. And weapons, too, if you'd like to toss that little thing." She brandishes her hand, as if it's evidence that my knife is no threat.

I grit my teeth at the same time that Roe rolls her eyes, and when she catches my eye I see a tiny smile cross her face. _Foiled, _she mouths, and I realize that there will be no getting out of this when this Coral is so determined.

"Look, Boy," Coral interrupts, waving her hands as if to catch my attention. "We don't need you in an alliance. I just thought it would be a good idea. Three people are stronger than two."

It's the same logic that I used to keep Ray and Greene from killing me.

"Aren't you a Career?" I ask abruptly.

"District 4, baby," she declares with another grin.

"Then where's your pack?"

She looks at me like it's obvious. "I can make my own allies, can't I?" Her expression is so sincere that I don't doubt that she honestly thinks that it's ok to think outside the box. "I picked Roe. And you."

"I saw you kill someone," I say flatly.

She doesn't look surprised. "We're in the Hunger Games." Her tone is more serious than I've heard it before. "I don't do it because I want to. I do it to beat everyone else playing the game."

If only everything could be that simple.

"You tried to kill me," I add.

"But that was before I knew fiery you are." She smiles sweetly at me. "Come on. Please."

There's something wrong with this girl, but she's so sincere about everything that I don't think this alliance is dangerous. Besides, her stock of supplies is impressive. This is practically a chance to be in with the Careers, and since the other Careers are only a tiny pack of three, this alliance may stand a chance. Logically, it makes sense. But it's the lure of having a real alliance that makes me blurt it out before I really mean it.

"Fine."

She claps her hands when I relent. I feel like I've just dug the first hole of my grave. For some reason, though, I don't make a move to retract what I just said. "Yay! Now, come here." She tries to grab me again, but I pull my hand back and she doesn't seem to mind. Roe watches, blank-faced, as Coral splits open her bag and starts pulling stuff out.

"Here's a better knife. You can throw that old dinky thing away." She's all business and efficiency as she shoves a longer dagger in my hands.

"Shouldn't we keep it?" I ask, confused. I'm not thinking clearly enough to ask any of the important questions, like how an alliance like this is ever going to work.

"Nah. Let someone else have it." She grabs my old knife and drives it into a nearby tree trunk. It bewilders me, but I have no choice but to go along with it.

"And food," she decides. "I can practically count your ribs."

I thought I was pretty well off with all of the fruit, but I'm hungry now and I eagerly accept the dry bread chunks.

"It's old, but it's good," Coral tells me as I begin to eat.

"You have handcuffs, I see," she continues. "That's good. I have an extra pair, but now I don't have to use it."

I nod and swallow. "And some matches and a water bottle." Looking at this alliance clinically – what can be contributed in exchange for her supplies – makes it easier to admit to myself that I have just let this girl rope me into an alliance because I'm too weak to resist.

"Any water in that?" She asks curiously.

"About half." I remember stealing it from the girl and feel acutely uncomfortable.

"Good! We were getting low." I hand it to her, committing myself to the alliance.

Roe stands apart from us, and I see little furrowed lines appearing in her brow. They promptly disappear when she catches me looking, and I get the feeling that she doesn't like my addition to the group.

"So, Boy, who are you?" Coral asks. "Also, you really need to cut your hair. I haven't seen your eyes once." She pushes her own hair back suggestively and laughs.

"Arden. District 7." I ignore her comment about my hair and give the standard summary, as if everything that is important about me can be contained in three words.

"We're Coral and Roe, in case you haven't caught on."

"Yeah."

"For now we're just camping out, but we're looking for water. We're kind of low, and I'm not too good with hunting animals. I'm much better with fish." Her fingers waggle in explanation.

The way she talks is so nonchalant that I bristle. She sounds like she has forgotten that we're in the Hunger Games. Can she really take 23 peoples' deaths so lightly? Only one of us in this alliance can get out, so shouldn't we be making something more serious? Alliances are supposed to have rules, not a light rundown of the objectives. If something happens, I want to know what the boundaries are.

"Yeah," I repeat stiffly.

"However, I did manage to snag a rabbit today. We're gonna cook it up." Her eyebrows wiggle again.

"What about the smoke?" It'll make us a clear target.

"I'm a Career. I'll handle it," she chirps cheerfully and drags a plump rabbit out of one of the bags. Its neck is mangled, obviously by her blade, but it's still edible.

She snatches my pack of matches and sets up a pile, which blazes up with a delicate flick of her fingers. Her finesse reminds me of the way we do it in District 7. She skins the rabbit with less fluidity, wasting clumps of flesh that cling stubbornly to the pelt, but none of us really know how to do a better job.

"It may be a little burnt," Coral tells us as she starts roasting it, but she doesn't sound concerned.

Roe makes a face, which makes me think that Coral is a worse cook than she thinks.

I take a place next to the fire and hold my hands out. The weather is fairly warm now, but I can't forget the cold from before. I feel like I need to set myself on fire from the inside to get rid of the fear of cold.

Coral scampers around the fire, poking the rabbit and adjusting it this way and that. I watch her absently, wondering just how I let myself get into this mess.

Roe comes to stand on the other side of the fire, staring into the flames and studiously ignoring me with her arms hugged to her chest. When Coral dashes off into the woods after shouting some excuse, she finally speaks up.

"You know, I never wanted you in the alliance." She's still looking at the ground, but she looks up at me a second later. Her eyes are steely, but her arms are folded defensively and she's shifting her weight from foot to foot. I think she's still uncomfortable at being left alone with me.

"Yeah," I say dryly. "I figured."

"But I'm stuck with you. So as long as you don't stab me in my sleep, I think we'll be good." She stares me down, and I feel like we've just made some pact.

"Yeah," I answer eventually, cementing the deal. "Sounds good."

**I know, I know, Roe's name looks just like Rue. But when she first appeared on scene, I couldn't get the name out of my head. Think of a deer if you have to; that's really where I got the name. Any thoughts on the two newcomers, besides the abundance of three letter names? If you have anything specific to say about the story at all, I must admit that I appreciate those reviews the most. I love hearing your input. :) If you're still with me, drop me something so I know.**


	18. Chapter 18

**First of all, wow. The massive influx of reviews I received for the last chapter just blew me away. It's stuff like that that has made me write three chapters ahead of the updates. (I'm on a roll!) I think I replied to all of your lovely reviews, but in case I didn't, or even if I did, thank you again for them. This chapter's disappointingly short, but I felt that the end of the chapter was in the right place. Enjoy! :)**

When the Capitol seal flashes across the sky I want to look away. I don't want to see everyone that died today, because for every cannon I heard I had a face to attach to it. As the anthem fades away, though, I find myself drinking them in anyway.

Ray is first. He looks calm in his picture, calmer than I've ever seen him, and I wonder how he could maintain such a cool expression before going into the Games. Then I wonder where they even got the photos, because I don't remember being photographed specifically in the event that I died. I don't want to imagine what my own picture would look like, but I can't help but wonder. It's a sickening feeling that curls up in the pit of my stomach as I imagine the remaining tributes watching my picture appear, and I don't know about everyone else, but more than anything else in these Games I desperately do not want to be dead. I'm sure that's pretty commonplace in a fight like ours, but it's not like it's the process of dying that really scares me. It's what happens after. I don't want to be part of the past tense. I don't want to simply disappear.

Ray's picture is gone before I can even finish my thoughts, and despite how much I hated him, I feel like he deserves more than that. I feel like we all deserve more than that, but I know no one in the Hunger Games will ever get it. Ray, at least, will be remembered by District 3. No one from his district ever makes it this far.

How many are left? I try to count, but then her face splits the night.

I stare at her, fighting back bile rising in my throat. She's scared. Her eyes are wide, and I can see her fighting back tears. Her lips are tight, as if she's trying to make them stop quivering. She could be fourteen, at most, and going to her death. She could have looked like this, right before I killed her. Clutching that tiny knife like a life raft against me, who was coming at her with a stick that was probably taller than she was.

Maybe she was trying not to cry when she saw me. Maybe she knew how it was going to end. Maybe she was _scared. _Of what _I _would do to her.

I did that.

Her name is there for a second, leaving me with nearly nothing to cling to. Harper Fallow. District Six.

I hold my head in my hands, rolling her name over and over again in my mind. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry. _I swear that I'll never forget what I did to her. And, if I can, I'll find some way to make it up to her.

It's nothing like what I did to that Career in the bloodbath. That I can understand. She was a Career, it was during the heat of the bloodbath, and I was too busy thinking about the handcuffs to realize what taking them off of her would mean.

But I didn't know survival would hurt this much.

Greene's face is next in the sky, and I look up, clenching my teeth. I'm still reeling from seeing the girl in the sky, but I feel like I need to do this - watch Greene's face disappear and close another chapter in the Hunger Games.

His smile is open and happy, like he has nothing to worry about in the world, and it's so genuine that I wish I could have met him before all of this. I wish I could have known him before the Games changed his willingness to please into a tool for Ray's bloodlust. He's not my kind of friend, that's for sure, but I think that outside of the Games he was worth more than just fodder for the Careers.

In the end, though, I think that's what we'll all become.

The Capitol seal flashes and winks out, and I lower my eyes. Roe's looking at me oddly, studying the despair on my face, but she looks away quickly when I catch her. Coral seems not to have noticed. "Final ten," Coral whispers seriously, holding ten fingers up and looking grave.

Ten left, including myself. Two more deaths, and we'll be in the final eight. There will be interviews for all of the families of the survivors. As I think about it, I desperately don't want those two deaths to happen. It occurs to me, though, how inevitable it all is. Because this is the Hunger Games, I am powerless to do anything about it. With or without me, this game will end with only one standing. My survival has nothing to do with it. And even if I were to never hurt another person for the remainder of the Hunger Games, still nine more have to die.

The thought doesn't reassure me. It doesn't make me feel better about anything I've done just because 23 people have to die. If anything, it makes me more frustrated. It's not like I'm willing to sacrifice myself just so that others don't have to die, but I see the injustice in how there's no way to really win this game. It's just about whoever lasts the longest.

**x.x.x.x**

Our fire trickles away as the night progresses, but Roe doesn't seem willing to leave the circle of charred sticks that we sit by and I don't want to go to sleep, either. Coral slipped off to sleep without a problem, but Roe obviously doesn't trust me enough to do the same. I'm still not sure where I stand in this alliance, if this even counts as an alliance, so I guess I know what she feels. Neither of us really wants to sleep while the other one's still awake. It's stupid to think that Roe would do anything to me, I know, but I can't make myself move from the fire so that I can sleep. Paranoia dies hard.

We don't talk. We don't look at each other. Each of us keeps our eyes trained on the bright embers settled in the pit, but sometimes I sneak glances at her, and I get the feeling that she does the same to me. She has her arms crossed over her knees, and her legs are pulled up against her chest. She was clenching her hands earlier, but she's since stopped.

She blinks slowly through the thin black hair curtaining her eyes, and I realize that she's exhausted. Suddenly I remember that there will be a tomorrow morning, and that, because this is the Hunger Games, I will have to fight in one way or another. I can't be dead on my feet, and neither can she. It feels cruel to draw out our little battle any longer when each of us has survival on our hands, so I abruptly stand. She looks up at me, stirred by the sudden motion, and meets my eyes. I look back at her, unsure of what to say, before simply turning away and walking as far away from her and Coral as I can. I sit down again there, and she still has her eyes on me as I stretch out on the grass and try to get comfortable enough to sleep.

_Good night, _Day mumbles.

_Good night, _I think back sleepily as my eyes drift shut, and the thought is for both Day and Roe. Maybe now all of us can get some sleep. It's hard to think that I could still care about sleep with all of the guilt I feel for the girl's death, but I've never had a problem with nightmares before and this is just the escape I've been desperate for.

**x.x.x.x**

Someone is poking me in the back of the head with their toe. I roll over, remembering where I am, and scramble to my feet. For a second I don't know what's going on. How did I get knocked out like that? Defensive, I brace myself and search for a weapon.

Coral's face finally registers, and I drop my hands. She's laughing softly at my reaction to being woken, eyes gleefully wide.

"Don't do that," I snap, glaring at her. She doesn't seem affected by my tone or expression.

"By the way, your knife's over there, silly. You musta dropped it."

Sure enough, my knife is laying, half buried in the grass, about a foot away from me. Careless. I snatch for it, nearly cutting myself in my haste. Careless, careless, careless. I could have stabbed myself in my sleep at best, or at worst been left unprepared if these two decided to ambush me in my sleep.

I keep a firm grip on the knife and stare at her as she laughs again.

"This is why I wanted you in the alliance. Endless comical relief." She winks and trots off to wake Roe, who staggers up blearily. Roe looks exponentially grumpier when she finds me standing in the campsite, knife in hand, but judging by the furrow in her brow she's just not a morning person.

"We have an early day today! We're moving out." Her eyes sparkle, effervescent. Roe groans.

"I thought we had one more day to rest," Roe protests sleepily.

Coral shakes a mostly empty water jug. "Yeah, but look at our supplies. You drink like a horse, Roe, and we need to refill. We're going to the oasis."

Roe blinks. "Where the other Careers might be."

"Yep. This game's gonna be a quick one," she declares.

This piece of news makes me uneasy. I always thought that a real alliance would be good for my longevity, not that it would lead me into the center of what could be the Careers' camp. I suddenly feel like I could do much better on my own. With the threat of the Careers an alliance doesn't seem like it's worth much.

But I can't back out now. If I did, these two would be liable to hunt me down and kill me for betraying them. Besides, I can't see myself bowing out with a couple of scared excuses. I'm not going to run now that I've come so far, and I'll have to face the Careers sometime, anyway. I might as well do it with someone to back me up.

"Let's go, then," I speak up, startling myself and the two girls. I'm not as confident as I sound, but I'm glad that I'm still able to put on a brave face.

_Arden, are you sure that's the right thing? _Day's voice trembles, and I wonder if it was a Career that killed her in her Games. From her perspective, this must seem pretty stupid. If it were up to her I'm sure that we'd scratch out a hiding place somewhere and hang on for as long as we could. But this is still up to me. I agreed, albeit halfheartedly, to be in this alliance, and I have to do this. Not just because of my duty, either. I don't want to run from the Careers anymore. If Coral's right, and the 150th Hunger Games are going to be this short, I might as well get it over with.

_That's morbid, _Day jokes halfheartedly. Fear makes a slick layer in her voice, and I realize that she's putting on her brave face as well.

I want to tell her that it'll be ok, but I know that it will never be ok for either one of us again. _I know, _I eventually reply. _But I have to do this anyway._

_I know._

"That's the spirit, Garden!" Coral teases.

_Garden? _Day and I think simultaneously. I groan while she giggles. Roe looks exasperated, yet again, by her ally, but I think she might be hiding a smile.

"Here's a bag," Coral adds, tossing one of our loaded supply bags at me. I snatch it out of the air and swing it over my shoulders. My handcuffs, which Coral had packed away with the other supplies, land at my feet and she gestures wildly for me to put them on. I do as requested, and with the sharp click of the metal falling into place I think how crazy all of this is.

It's crazy that I'm going to invade what could be the Careers' camp for a bit of water. It's crazy that I'm a part of this alliance. It's even crazy that I'm not dead yet.

At this point, though, I feel like all of this is beyond my control, so I might as well try to keep up for as long as I can.


	19. Chapter 19

**I've been so lazy recently, but I couldn't resist writing this chapter. :)**

When Coral walks, it's as if she owns the arena. She's confident and completely unconcerned, and even though she split off from the pack I can see that she really is a Career. She fiddles with her nails as she walks, and her blade is swung carelessly at her hip. I'm still not sure whether I'm glad or not that we're on the same side.

Roe, however, is back to biting her lip. She looks like she's lost in thought, and nearly trips over several roots. It's none of my business, but I don't know why she's so distracted. It would be easy for someone to jump out from the forest and pick her off before she knew what was happening. Is it abnormal for someone to be as paranoid as I am in the arena? I don't think so, and I don't think it's normal that someone is as distracted as Roe seems to be when their life is in danger.

It's as if she reads my mind. She looks over to me and glares when she catches me watching her. I look away, and I'm reminded of the animals we sometimes corner in District 7 when we chop down their trees. She has her hackles up, like I've trapped her in her own alliance.

I can understand that. I'm well used to unwelcome intruders.

Day snorts. _Thanks, _she teases. Her voice still carries a note of worry, and I assume she's scared about walking into a Career's trap. She's still trying to be brave about it.

_It's just another platform, _I tell her. _We have no evidence that the Careers will even be there. _

_I know, _she whispers back.

Roe moves up next to Coral, who begins talking animatedly. Roe doesn't turn back, shoulders set, but I see her relax more now that Coral is chatting with her. Without my threat immediately on her mind, she almost smiles once or twice.

"Handcuffs out!" Coral sings as we finally approach the edge of the platform. It looms in front of us, a steep drop-off, but neither Coral or Roe balk. The wire is a perfect place for us to be attacked, and all for a little water, but I've already decided to do this. I'm on autopilot now, silencing logic and blindly moving forward.

We don't see anyone on any of the smaller platforms nearby, and though I can't speak for the bigger platforms, I don't think any other tributes are near us. It's a relief, but I'm still not convinced that Coral's harebrained plan will go smoothly.

Coral goes first, swinging delicately onto the golden wire. Instead of going hand-over-hand, though, she hangs onto the handcuffs themselves and pushes off from land. The cuffs slide along the wire smoothly, carrying her almost to the other end of the wire without incident. No one sticks a knife in her back, either, so I assume that we're clear.

Roe does the same, though she's considerably less graceful about it, nearly coming to several frustrated stops before reaching the other side. For the first time since meeting her I don't need to duck out of the way or avoid her gaze, and just watching her opens up questions in my mind. It's not just that I don't know who she is, either. She's a tribute in the Quarter Quell, so she should have someone in her head like the rest of us do. But since she's just a substitute, I highly doubt they had time to do that. Does that mean that she gets to be normal?

I crouch down to snap myself onto the wire and use the old hand over hand method to get across. Sliding across like they do looks like it would snap my arms off, so I take considerably longer with my method.

"Just a few more platforms," Coral tells us as I scramble up. "Then we'll hit the oasis." She bounds onto the next wire on the other side of the platform, hardly bothering to snap her cuffs on first. Roe and I stand packed together on the tiny platform that's hardly bigger than a tribute plate, and when I see all the wires we have to cross I sigh. My broken arm aches just looking at it.

Roe pauses at the edge of the platform, looking at my arm as if she's only noticed it now that I've started fiddling with it. It looks pretty bad, I know; a splint of sticks bound together with bloody cloth.

"You going to be able to cross with that?" She asks. She sounds louder now that she's not surrounded by Coral's babble. She sounds more defensive that concerned, though; as if my injury might slow her down.

"I'll be fine," I say stiffly.

She looks relieved at my tone, as if she had been worried that I would think her comment was sincere. With that our short conversation ends and we start travelling again. It's not long until my arm hurts fiercely and I'm shuffling awkwardly along the wires. I refuse to stop, though, with Roe watching me like a hawk. I don't want to give her something to complain about.

"Here we are!" Coral chirps as I finally catch up, but "here" doesn't look like much to me. It's like our old platform; another thick forest. The trees are closer together and the foliage is different, but that's the only real change. The leaves are a darker green and thicker, with a shiny coating that I've never seen before, and the ground is springier, less littered with undergrowth and fallen things.

"Where's the water?" Roe asks, peering into the shadows.

"It'll be further in, but see this?" She picks some moss off of the trunk of one of the trees. "It's very wet here."

I can't stop looking around, concerned much more with where the Careers may be than our new water source. If they're here, they'll know about us by now. If there's going to be an ambush, this is it. I have to be ready. I feel like yelling at these two to be quiet so that I can listen and prepare myself, but I'm not comfortable enough in the alliance yet to start throwing around orders.

Coral notices the tense lines that must be forming on my face. "Relax, Garden. There's no one here." She smiles teasingly and suggestively lowers her weapon. Roe snorts in the background.

"I get it," I hiss through tightly clenched teeth, but I refuse to put down the knife she gave me. I'm not ready to die just because this girl is clueless. Coral laughs but doesn't press it, spinning the blade between her fingers before sliding it into her belt.

"Come on," she says. "This is the platform I started out on, so I pretty much know where the oasis is." She charges off into the trees, cracking and smashing things in her wake.

Roe and I both pause for a moment, watching her go. Roe still clutches her knife, but it's lowered tensely by her side. The position of her knife almost exactly mimics mine. She sighs and readjusts her grip on the knife before muttering to herself, "this is crazy."

_I agree, _I think, but Roe obviously didn't mean the comment for me and in a second she's padding off after Coral with considerable caution. I still haven't found a reason to abandon the alliance when I've come this far, so I steel myself and push forward. If nothing else, to the very end of the Games, I will keep pushing.

"Found it!" Coral sings, breaking into my thoughts and startling a pair of birds above me. Funny, they're the only live animals I've really seen in the arena so far. I suppose animals won't last long when they're trapped on a single platform. It's not like they can slide across the wires, and there are hungry tributes out here.

And now that yell has alerted any Careers to our presence, as well.

I swallow my anger, curling my fingers in frustration. If the Careers are coming now, then I don't want to be standing still. I speed up, following Coral's trail of destruction. It finally opens up into a wide basin and I heave a sigh of relief when I can stop looking behind every tree just to look for Careers. Despite how unprotected we are here, no one can ambush us without us catching on.

A shallow dip in the clearing holds three pools that look obviously man-made. They're perfect circles, with two smaller pools flanking the deep one in the center. It's so perfect that I don't know why it's not taken already. There are no signs that anyone has ever been here, though. I don't see any charred marks on the ground where a fire would have been or footsteps.

Coral is already in the bigger pool, soaked up to the neck with her head tilted back and golden curls floating out behind her. "Come on, Roe!" She urges, flipping her hand lazily to encourage her, but Roe shakes her head.

"I'll wash up later," Roe says evasively, hugging her arms tighter to herself.

Coral shakes her head and dives under the water, whooping as the cold water drenches the rest of her.

Roe whirls around at my entrance, fixing me with a brief look. Her nose twitches in annoyance, but whatever she was going to say is cut short.

Coral pops up from the edge of the water and wraps her hands around Roe's ankles. She gives a sharp tug and Roe topples backwards with a shriek that's so unlike Roe that I stifle a laugh. Roe flails and goes under for a moment before realizing that she can easily stand on the bottom of the pool.

"Coral!" She coughs, splashing the other girl and scrambling to try and dunk her. Coral's faster, though, and pushes Roe under again. Roe comes back up, spluttering and actually laughing. She wipes her wet hair out of her eyes and swats at Coral, who ducks and nearly slips in the process.

It's so out of the ordinary that I forget, for a moment, that we're in the Hunger Games, and I can't stifle my next laugh. It almost hurts to laugh after all this, and I even feel guilty about it, but I can't help it.

"Hey! You, too, Arden!" Coral launches a wall of water at me and I jump back as droplets splatter me. The water is chilly against the afternoon air, which never really recovered from the cold and could only be classified as mild, not warm. "You need to wash up, anyway." She motions toward my mop of hair and laughs again.

"I don't know," I refuse automatically, but before I can make a case for myself Coral launches herself out of the water and grabs my arm with her slippery hand. I relent and let her drag me into the pool.

I shiver against the cold, immediately fighting back the habitual cold inside me now, but a second later it becomes more important to fight for oxygen as Coral forces me under. I struggle upwards, finally breaking free when Coral springs back and lets me up. I cough up water and grin, shaking dripping hair out of my eyes. When wet, it nearly reaches the tip of my nose.

Coral shrieks as I chase her down and dunk her, and I remember that she's a Career when she drags my feet out from beneath me from underwater. We both go down, still laughing and inhaling more water than is probably healthy.

Roe stands apart from us, distant as usual, trying to comb her fingers through her hair. She looks happy for once, though, just to be here.

"Wait here, Garden, I'm getting the knife." Coral slides out of the water, as smooth as a fish, and sprints up the bank to our bags. I lay back in the water, trying unsuccessfully to float. I've never really swam before back in District 7, so it's a good thing that the water's shallow enough to stand in.

Coral crashes back into the water, holding her knife above her head. "Let's solve this problem, huh?" I'm alarmed for a moment, thinking that she has just turned on me, but then she smoothly slices off half my hair. It sweeps cleanly to just above my eyes now, and it's such a relief that when Coral starts celebrating and whooping, I join in. We're crazy with survival, and suddenly none of the complications matter. Nothing seems as important as standing here and laughing together does.

"I can finally see your eyes!" Coral cheers.

"That feels so much better," I admit. Coral takes a gracious bow and tosses her knife back up on shore.

"You're welcome."

I feel suddenly daring, so I tell Coral in a quiet voice, "watch this," and begin creeping up behind Roe through the water. Coral giggles, covering her mouth with one hand, and I grin and motion for her to shut up. Her green eyes dance playfully, but she does what I say and stops laughing.

Once I'm close enough, I scoop my hands under the water and abruptly splash as much water as I can over Roe's head. She yelps and turns to face me, splashing me before she realizes that I'm not Coral.

I blink through the water that she splashed me with and grin mischievously. I see her visibly work through her emotions, trying to decide whether or not to be mad, and at the last second she decides to smile.

I start sloshing away as fast as I can, but she's faster and a second later her volley of splashes begins to soak me from behind. Coral giggles unabashedly as Roe chases me through the water, and I can't help but laugh along with her. It's infectious, carrying through the air and making us all abandon ourselves for a minute. Every so often I turn and splash Roe to try to slow her progress, but it's futile and she eventually catches up.

I let her dunk me when she reaches me, and when I resurface she's actually smiling. "Gotcha."

**Ah, the obligatory warm-fuzzies chapter. Every fic's gotta have one. ;) I hope you guys appreciated their brief respite from imminent danger. Knowing the Hunger Games, it may not last much longer.**


	20. Chapter 20

**I had to fight for every word of this chapter. Nothing sounded right even after I wrote it, so I wrote at least three drafts of this chapter before finally finishing with this one. I know it's not perfect, but I just have to post it or I'll go crazy. ^^; I'm really sorry for the wait, guys. I hope you'll like the chapter anyway; maybe the length will make up for it? :)**

I've been battling my paranoia all night.

Logically, I can see that the alliance has changed. After messing with each other in the pools, an easy camaraderie has settled over us. It's not as if we're suddenly all friends, or that I even trust them completely, but this is the kind of alliance I thought I'd never have in the arena. I never thought I'd find someone that I might be able to lean on. I thought that I'd be dying alone.

But I can't let my guard down, and as much as I would like to lounge like Coral is in front of the fire I built, I know that getting comfortable will get me killed. Coral may be able to brush off her fear, but I just can't. If there's one good thing about the Hunger Games, it's that we all have some experience from watching it every year on our television screens. Our alliance's fun in the water may be heart-warming fodder for the Capitol audience, but enjoying yourself in the arena is like a slap in the face to the Gamemakers. Their job is to kill us, and laughter and splashing are not the kind of things that prove they're up to the task.

I'm only here to survive – not to play mind games with Gamemakers – but I understand that we're treading on delicate ground just by joking around as we have been. What better way to create tension than to kill us all off after we've finally solidified the alliance?

The clouds above my head are weightier than they should be; thick with unhealthy promise that mirrors my mood. They move too fast, too engineered to fool me into thinking that they're a natural phenomenon, but Coral assured me earlier that they're not snow clouds. I don't know how she'd know that, but I'll take her word for it because it's better than the alternative, which is to worry all night about whether or not I'm going to freeze to death.

"Arden, relax," Coral says flippantly. "It's day four and you're not dead yet. I think that calls for a celebration." Her head cocks to one side mischievously and yet another blinding smile crosses her features. I'm struck by how out of place she looks here, surrounded by misery that apparently has no effect on her. How did she end up here? I can't imagine her going back home in a box, though I'm sure that's how we'll all be making the trip back to our districts. She's just too _alive. _

Then again, being from District 4, she must have volunteered. I just can't understand why, though. Why would anyone this happy ask for this? I jokingly suspect that she must be half-crazy, as Roe always mouths when she thinks I'm not looking. After dealing with Day, though, I'm not sure that she's not actually a little off the deep end. Being a tribute, Coral must have a voice in her head like the rest of us. And though I've never noticed her bring the voice up, surely she can't have ignored it all this time.

_Hey, don't blame me for your crazy head, _Day teases quietly. It's a weak attempt to lighten the rampant paranoia I feel, but I have to grudgingly smile. _Oh, and by the way, tell Coral that I said thanks for cutting your hair. I really love being able to see! _She giggles, but quiets abruptly. She and I are both thinking how unlikely it is that anything she says will ever be heard by anyone other than me. I don't know how she can stand being so helpless to do anything, even to say something as simple as that. Why isn't she fighting? If I were trapped like she is, I would do anything it took to break free. So I suppose I got lucky that she's so compliant.

After thinking that I immediately feel awful, but Day just shrugs it off. _I'm really glad you didn't get stuck with anyone else, too. _She pauses, and the weight of the statement sinks in between us before she giggles childishly and adds, _Someone else might have really made you crazy! _She cracks up, and though I don't see what's so funny when we're talking about being a prisoner in someone's head, I let her have her fun. She's just a kid, after all.

"Do you know what time it is?" Roe asks Coral, who squints up at the sky uncertainly. Roe looks on edge, biting her lip and fidgeting with her hands as Coral judges the sky.

"Dunno, the clouds make it hard to tell, but it must be nearly time for the anthem." Roe nods and Coral launches into an animated conversation about something, waving her hands as she talks. Roe listens, nodding in all the right places, but I can see that she's only paying half attention and that something is really bothering her. Several times she tries to cut Coral off, and though I'm trying not to listen in, I see how frustrated she's getting by whatever it is that she's trying to say.

Finally, Roe jumps to her feet, tight-lipped, and storms off. Coral blinks, obviously surprised by her friend's sudden departure, and I wince as I catch sight of Roe's steely frown. Maybe the alliance isn't as solid as I thought. When Roe hesitates but turns to face me, I have to quell the urge to turn and run. Her eyebrows are cocked fiercely over her eyes as she marches straight up to me. She's clearly angry, but as she gets closer I see the desperation etched in the lines weighing down her face.

"Listen," she hisses in my ear, and she leans close enough that I can feel her ribcage moving up against mine. It occurs to me a second later that the cameras are not supposed to pick up on whatever she's saying. "Coral doesn't believe me, but we have a problem. Don't let your guard down." Her words are sharp edged, loud in my ears despite how urgently hushed her voice is. "We may be targeted by the Gamemakers." That's nothing that I don't already know. I know the whole deal with happiness ultimately ending badly in the arena. That's not all she has to say, though, and I see a flash of fear and maybe even shame in her eyes before she starts whispering again. "It's a long story that we don't have time for, but I think they're probably going to try to get rid of me because –"

With chilling efficiency her words are cut off and it looks like she's just mouthing something as a mechanic shriek splits the air, deafening me. I stagger back, as if I can put distance between myself and the noise, and swear violently even though I can't hear the words.

There's no doubt in my mind that the noise was set off specifically for the purpose of shutting Roe up. Maybe I'm paranoid, but it sounded like she had something important to say. Something that the Gamemakers either didn't want me or the audience to know.

Roe clutches her ears and I see tears track down her cheeks, and then the pain registers in my own ears. The noise is just the right pitch to rip my skull apart, piece by piece. Surely they can't just keep this whistling noise up or it will incapacitate everyone in the arena, and that doesn't make for a good show.

But the whistle doesn't stop. It drives deeper and deeper into my head, background music to the increasingly loud pounding of my heart. Panic seeps in as the seconds draw on and the mechanic shriek continues. How long to they plan to keep this up? There's no way to fight this new attack off, and the pain isn't becoming easier to bear. In fact, it seems to be getting louder. I sink to my knees, hands over my ears, and try to shake the pain off. As I do, I feel a wet trickle traveling down my cheek and I suddenly fear that whatever this noise is doing could damage me permanently.

But then a soft sniffling noise breaks through the scream of the whistle and I realize that this means that I can hear something other than the whistle again. Relief floods me – I couldn't imagine surviving the Hunger Games if I was deaf – but then the sniffling turns into tiny little sobs and I recognize that it's just Day, trying not to cry. I can feel her desperately trying to be brave, but she's only a little kid so I'm not surprised when she starts to really cry a second later.

_I'm sorry, _she chokes out, and her apology is so ridiculous in the midst of all this that I don't know what to think. It's true that I hate crying, but surely she realizes that there are more important things to worry about right now than whether or not her sobs have annoyed me.

_Day. _I struggle to think as the scream continues, muddling my thoughts. _Forget about it. _The simple effort of talking to Day makes my head pound even more fiercely, and the full implications of this situation hit home. Can the Gamemakers kill us just with sound?

Then Coral is in front of me, hauling me to my feet and dramatically mouthing something only inches from my face. She shoves a bag of supplies into my arms, still waving her arms around as if that will help me read her lips better. I feel like grabbing her and shouting at her to slow down so that I can understand, but in this situation that's impossible.

Then Coral's pushing and shoving at me before I can even read her lips, still shouting something. I twist around, trying to stop her, but all I catch on her lips are jumbled words. I think I see something about the Gamemakers, but then she just starts mouthing _go _over and over again and I have no choice but to comply.

Coral gathers up the remaining bags and gestures wildly at Roe before taking off running, away from our perfect oasis. I know what I'm supposed to do – follow her and whatever crazy scheme she has planned. I think both Roe and I unconsciously look to Coral as the leader, so it makes sense to run after her. But I don't want to. We were all happy and healthy here, so I'm wary to venture off into the unknown. Surely things will never be as good as they were here. The shriek is blaring in my ears and screaming adrenaline into my veins, though, and I make the decision to run without thinking it through.

I hesitate in place for only a moment before charging after Coral and Roe. Then it's only about the running and just how much distance I can put between myself and whatever the source of the noise is. Everything else falls away and all I have to concentrate on is putting one foot in front of the other. No more mind games. No more complicated alliances and unhappy Gamemakers.

And, best of all, as I run the noise begins to fade away. I'm either slowly going deaf or Coral was right and we're moving away from the source of the screech. I'm inclined to think it's the latter, as Coral hasn't been wrong yet.

Coral's fast, but it doesn't take much to catch up to her. The only one who's lagging behind is Roe, who struggles to just stay within sight of the two of us. I always knew she was skinny, but I didn't think she was this weak. She stumbles as she runs, and she has an awkward gait that suggests she doesn't do much running wherever she comes from. It makes me wonder what District she's from – she never told us that, did she? Wherever it was, they obviously didn't feed her much.

I don't _want _to drop back and help her. It doesn't make sense to slow down for Roe, who may or may not completely hate me. If we lose her, though, we'll probably never see her again. Coral's off in her own world, oblivious, so I guess it's up to me. Maybe Coral has rubbed off on me and I'm going crazy, but I slowly drop back until I'm almost level with Roe. When I turn to look at her I realize that there's nothing I can really do to help her besides make sure she doesn't get lost and I feel foolish. When she glares at me, mouthing something that I still can't hear over the whining noise, I feel even stupider. What was I thinking - that she would accept my help? There's no way I'm going to get on her good side just by annoying her.

She shouts something, still angry, and I'm considering backing off, but then her eyes widen and I have a second to wonder why before something heavy slams into my side. I hear Day scream before I realize what's happening, then there are fingers at my throat and I can feel the soft earth on my back underneath me.

The Career – because that's the only thing this monster of a tribute could be – winks at me and presses harder on my throat. My head swims and I'm left to think absently how eerie it is that the only thing I can hear is that damn whistling noise. Day is screaming and screaming and we're going to die and this guy is slowly squeezing the life out of me and I don't know what to do about it.

I see a flash of weaponry and then Coral is standing over me while the Career grunts and groans a few feet away. She yanks me to my feet and screams the first word I've heard since the noise started – _run._

The huge Career staggers back up and glares at Coral as she dances away, on a collision course with what I suppose is another member of the pack, a muscled girl with thick brown hair. Coral drives her wickedly curved blade into the female Career's back and digs downward, making the girl writhe and scream over the whistling noise. Roe is fleeing from another male Career, who is only slightly smaller than the other one. She screams and flails when he hooks her feet out from under her and she goes down hard.

In the midst of all this, oblivious to our predicament, the Capitol seal highlights the evening sky. There's a moment of tension in the air and then the whistling abruptly cuts off, to be replaced by the Capitol anthem. The world is suddenly too quiet without the noise, even though Roe's screams and the Careers' whoops are suddenly very loud.

The seal winks out quickly with no deaths to report. I almost laugh – that could change very quickly. At the rate things are going, all three of us could be dead in a minute. The urge to laugh at the irony disappears, though, when I consider just what it would feel like to have one of those Careers rip me apart. Suddenly I'm scared, more afraid than I've ever been.

Coral yanks her knife out of the female Career, who stumbles for only a moment before diving after Coral and tackling her, clawing at her shoulders and hair as they fall. I can only watch as Coral struggles to get free, kicking and dragging herself away. I see the Career's weapon slip from her grasp and that's when Coral takes the opportunity to spring to her feet and launch herself at the Career who's inching his knife with deliberate slowness down Roe's neck.

She stabs at the boy and nearly goes right through his arm with her blade. He cries out and Roe worms free, her hands visibly shaking. The job done, Coral grabs Roe's arm and pulls her forward. "Run!" She screams at me and I stumble into gear after them.

We're nearly mindless as we run. We're as much a pack as the Careers that are chasing us with only one objective: _go. _Roe finds a way to catch up, and despite a new limp Coral still leads us forward.

I know they're still behind us. The Careers aren't going to let prey go, especially at the final 10. And this platform can't last forever – eventually we'll find open air, where we can't run anymore. But for now none of that matters, and it's only push, push, push as we try to outrun our pursuers.

That's when the rain starts to come down, the angry clouds too swollen to wait any longer. The droplets catch some of the moonlight as they plunk from leaf to leaf before finally reaching our heads. It feels like a blessing on my hot skin, and I almost want to stick my tongue out to catch some of them as I run. I'm panting now; a reminder that I can't run forever.

I feel like the sky has opened up underneath us as we reach the edge of the platform. It's as dark as the sky above us, as if there's no line drawn between the stars and the ground. It makes me wonder just how high these platforms actually are.

"Handcuffs on!" Coral commands, eyes wide. I understand her urgency – the Careers could be anywhere behind us, and if they catch us while we're on the wire, we're done. She dumps one bag out on the ground, ignoring the food that spills out. She snatches two pairs of handcuffs and tosses one at me. I barely catch it and clip it onto my wrist.

"The other two are in your bag, Roe," Coral tells her as she snaps her handcuffs on.

Roe pales as she hears this. I notice that her hands are still shaking from the attack. "I lost the bag," she whispers.

"What?" Coral rounds on her, blinking. "Where is it?"

"I dropped it during the fight," Roe explains, looking sick.

We all pause, letting that sink in. "Can we go back for it?" I ask, even though I know that that's impossible. The Careers would only catch us as we tried to double back.

"We only have two," Coral says slowly, and we all understand the implications.

Two handcuffs.

Three people.


	21. Chapter 21

**Aha! A timely update! This chapter is really intended to be more of a continuation of the last one, but I wasn't going to post a 7000 word chapter, so this is what you get. :) To all of you who have been reviewing, and the new readers we have on board: thank you! You guys make this story happen when I'd really rather crawl in bed than stay up writing all night. *Cough* Now, I assume you're all the way to chapter 21 for a reason, so read on.**

"We have to keep moving," Coral decides, grim-faced.

"So one of us has to cross the wire without handcuffs," I state flatly. I look down at my own pair of handcuffs, which hang loosely on my wrist. Coral's wrist is also adorned with a pair, so it's pretty easy to see that Roe is the one left without.

I see Roe's lips quiver for a moment before she frowns, stoic. "So let's go," she says harshly. Her eyes blaze, defensive, as if the mere suggestion that she might be afraid is offensive. Her hair is flat around her face and her clothes hang off of her body like loose skin, drenched by the rain, but she looks no less intimidating.

"Wait." Coral shakes her head. "You go in the middle. We'll catch you if you slip." But I know her words are empty. If Roe falls while we're crossing, there's no way we'll be able to catch her. We'll be using both hands to cross. She may get tangled up for a moment if we really try to hold onto her, but there would be no stopping the inevitable.

Roe hesitates. "Ok," she finally says, stepping back from the wire. But then the first slap of lightning flashes above our heads, and Roe jumps, startled. For just a moment everyone is illuminated, and I realize just how dark it has gotten in the arena. Coral's cheeks glow with raindrops and her hair is wild; she still looks more alive than the rest of us with the crackle of lightning behind her. She looks almost like she could bottle the lightning herself if she wanted to. Roe, however, looks even smaller in the light, so soaked that I can imagine her ribs poking out from under emaciated skin. Only her burning eyes suggest that there's someone inside the skeleton.

Then the lightning disappears, leaving only the growl of thunder and the indistinct shapes of the two girls. We pause, drawing heavy breaths. None of us want to step onto that wire and seal what could be our deaths. We all feel urgency heavy on our backs, though, and the crash in the forest behind us reaffirms the need to run. It could be anything, but it does sound distinctly like a body charging through the trees and we all think one thing: Careers.

"Go!" Coral screams hoarsely, and there's a furry of hands as she clips herself onto the wire and jumps. I see her hands slip on the wire, which is slick with rain, and I feel sick as I imagine Roe doing the same thing without the safety net of the handcuffs.

Roe crouches next to the wire for a moment before tentatively sliding on. Her fingers clench and unclench nervously, and I can just see her falling off entirely. It's then that I realize that I could have done something to prevent this. Guilt settles in the pit of my stomach as I hear my pair of handcuffs rattle ominously, but I lock my handcuffs on and let myself drop, officially leaving safety behind on firm ground.

Coral and I sandwich Roe between us, so tight that I can hardly breathe, in the hopes that she won't fall. Water slips down between our bodies, running over Roe's fingers tauntingly. I can feel how slick the wire is, slippery with rain and sweat, so it's understandable when I feel her heartbeat ratchet faster under mine. I don't want to think about what it would be like to be in her situation, only a second away from grasping at empty air instead of the solid wire. One wrong move. That's all it would take.

We all breathe heavily as we begin the cautious trek across empty air; each pant is loaded with the promise that _this may be my last breath. _I can feel Roe's arms shaking and I'm suddenly, horribly convinced that she's going to fall. It doesn't look like she can hold herself up much longer. I may not like her, but I'm so sick of seeing death. And Roe is not a stranger – I've argued with her too many times to write her off as just another casualty.

"Hurry," Coral calls back, but there's no need to. We all understand the urgency of having the Careers right on our tails. If we don't move faster, they're going to kill us. It's that simple. For once, this has nothing to do with strategy or playing the audience. Life or death hangs on this wire with us, and the outcome will be decided by something as simple as whether or not we can move faster than the people chasing us.

Lighting cracks over our heads again, and Roe shrinks back from the light. As if on cue, the rain starts coming down even harder, so fast that it almost hurts. The scene suddenly seems very dramatic – us dangling here in the middle of a ferocious storm – and it occurs to me that the Gamemakers could be ramping up for our deaths. Now more so than ever, it seems very important to get off of this wire. I have no idea whether or not the Gamemakers can snap the wire from their control booth.

I want to move forward. I strain internally against the desire to shove Roe out of the way so that I can move faster, and it feels so primal that I'm disgusted enough to snap out of it. I'm not going to push anyone, not here, not for anything. Day seems to be the same way, fighting panic. _Gogogogogo. _She keeps up a steady whimper in the back of mind; a constant reminder of just what is at stake here.

_Day, _I think before I even know what I'm saying. _Day, you don't have to worry. _I'm abruptly angry, so furious with what is happening here that I can't think straight. Who are the Gamemakers to do this to us? Who are they to _bring a child back from the dead _so that she can die all over again? _I swear, I'm going to get you out of this. No matter what. I'm taking you home, _I growl.Adrenaline and fury sweep me, and maybe I'll regret this promise later, but I mean it. Whatever else happens in the arena, I have to get Day out.

I don't know how I expect her to respond, but I strain to hear whatever it is she has to say. I never get the chance.

Because I'm in the back, it hits me first. The foreign sensation sets my blood on fire and I cry out, releasing the wire so that only my handcuffs hold me up. Whatever it is travels through the handcuffs, though, and sets me on fire all over again. My body jerks, beyond my control, and it's then that I remember the sting from faulty electrical things at home that makes my fingers twitch and spasm for long after I draw my hand away. Something has lit the wire up with electricity and now, with nowhere else to go, it fills me up.

Then Roe screams, and I realize that it's hitting them, too. Instinctually, I haul myself back up and clamp down on Roe's wrist as a precaution. I won't be able to hold her up if she falls, but I'm not going to sit back and watch as she does.

Coral lets out a stream of profanities and then starts shouting for us to move, _move! _I'm not sure that I can at all. The waves of electricity are immobilizing me aside from the random twitches, and I have to face the fact that I'm trapped here like it's any old snare that people set up in the forests of District 7 to catch stray woodland creatures. I can see the gruesome scene unfolding already; trapped here as we are, we make perfect prey for the Careers.

When the electricity simply disappears with a dramatic zap, I sag in relief and wipe a thin sheen of sweat off of my forehead. Maybe it's too convenient that it's gone this quickly, but I'm more than willing to go along with it. After all, it's more than likely that lightning just struck something connected to this wire. I release Roe's wrist, almost embarrassed, and test out my fingers. They're stiff, as if the electricity has done something to them, but usable.

I think Roe is crying. The liquid dripping off of her chin is most likely rain, but the way her shoulders are shaking betrays to me that she still may be in some pain. I almost want to encourage her: if we can just get off this wire, everything will be ok. She plows on, though, only a little slower than before, and doesn't even let the tumultuous thunder startle her like it would have earlier.

Maybe we can make it. Maybe, even with all of this, we can still-

Then it's back, violently winding through my veins and making bright sunbursts pop in front of my eyes. I groan involuntarily, and I'm surprised to see that my own hands are shaking now. _Make it stop, _I plead between clenched teeth. Much more of this and there won't be anything left of me to fight with. They're going to fry me completely. Now there's no doubt in my mind that this isn't a freak lightning strike. The Gamemakers really have decided to kill us.

Day screams, the kind of scream that makes you think of death, and I remember my promise. _I'm getting y-you off this wire, _I tell her, but I half think that I'm trying to convince myself as well.

This time I'm too far gone to help Roe, but I can see that she's still holding her own, swaying in front of me. The line of her jaw is clenched so fiercely that I wonder how she hasn't snapped her teeth in half yet. That's when I admire her the most, but I still don't know if it's going to be enough to get her out alive.

Again it stops, and even though I'm so relieved that I nearly lose my hold on the wire completely, I know where this game is headed. They're trying to give us a little bit of line and then yank us back. I'm sure it's a good show for the folks back home, and ironic to have the lightning not only in the sky but in the wires as well.

_They're going to do it again, _Day croaks. _We have to get off before they do. _My head swims violently, but the combined energy of Day's fear and the crackle of tension around me is enough to get me going again. Just a little bit farther. Hand over hand.

When I don't quite make it to the edge before the next attack hits, I'm done. I know vaguely that Day is screaming and crying somewhere else in my head as the Gamemakers torture us again, but it fails to make any impact. In fact, everything is slipping away. I can't feel my hands or much of anything else, and it's getting hard to see. I end up just closing my eyes and waiting, and a wonderful sense of calm steals over me. It seems suddenly right to just hang here and let the Gamemakers do as they will, and I know distinctly that I'm not going to fight it off. In fact, I feel sleepy more than anything. That's ok, though. I can feel myself drifting, off to sleep or whatever else it may be, and I can't bring myself to care.

"Arden!" A muffled voice swims languidly into one ear and lodges somewhere in my mind. "Arden?" The next one's a faint question, like the asker is very far away from me. "You have to move! Now!" For some reason I can't remember what any of those words mean.

"I swear, Arden, I'm not killing myself over here so that you can go to sleep!" This time the voice rings in my ears, an authoritative bark that's loud enough to make my eyes fly open. An indistinct mass of curls and angry green eyes greet me. "Come on, lazy ass, help me!" Coral is tugging on my arm, trying to haul me to the edge of the next platform, which is only about a foot away. I can't help her, though. I feel deadened, completely numb as if I've lost my body entirely.

"Roe, take this!" Coral snaps, grunting and sliding me close enough so that Roe can grab my hand and help yank me up to land. Her grip is frail, and I can almost imagine a bird fluttering in her shaky hands. Coral just grits her teeth and pushes me up, throwing me haphazardly onto the dirt. I'm completely limp, but the sensation of something solid beneath me finally shocks me back into awareness of the situation.

"Don't you _ever _do that again. You're too big to carry around. You hear?" Coral crouches down and stares at me. Her eyes look too wide, too big for her face.

"Yeah," I choke out before clearing my throat hoarsely. The world spins for a moment and I slump back, spent.

I hear Roe mutter something about wasted time as I cough, still limp on the ground. I know that the Careers are still behind us, but after making it off of that wire I feel like I could survive anything. Besides, I assume that the Careers would have to endure the electricity as well.

_Thanks…a bunch, _Day pants quietly. _I've never felt anything like that before. _Her voice quivers, and I feel again the heated anger towards the Capitol for putting her through this.

Roe looks like she's about to come and kick me in the face until I get up, so I haul myself into a sitting position. I hope that's good enough for her, because I'm not sure that I'll be able to move another inch. Every muscle feels stiff, and my head is pounding furiously at just the slight movement. I feel dazed as well, and with every blink my vision blurs for a moment before returning to normal. I clutch the side of my head, willing the dizzy spells away.

It's not helping. In fact, I feel even worse, as if the world is spinning underneath me though I'm not moving at all. That's about when Coral reaches down and yanks me up without warning.

"Can't you feel that?" She asks, looking at me like I'm crazy. I stagger for a moment, abruptly unbalanced. Coral's eyebrows shoot up. "That really screwed you up, huh? Look, the freaking ground is shaking. This whole platform is moving."

I take a better look at the platform as my head clears. That's why the world was spinning – the platform is literally shaking back and forth underneath us. This particular platform is tiny and bare, only a rest stop on the way to one of the four bigger platforms, but I still don't see how it's vibrating like it is. The wires sway with it, catching the moonlight, and I see Roe bite her lip as she watches the wires.

"We can't stay here much longer," Coral states matter-of-factly. "The Careers are coming and this whole platform is going crazy. Listen, what usually happens when the ground starts shaking, huh? Landslides. Cave ins. Things that involve land breaking apart and falling. You'd agree that that's logical, yes? Then what do you think is going to happen to this platform? It's going to completely fall apart."

_I don't know if I can move, _I think, but of course I don't say that. I just suck it up because that's what I have to do and that's what I've been doing all along. I shrug Coral off and stand as steadily as I can, staring down the wire. I can almost see the lightning edging along the coils, and I realize how easy it would be for the Gamemakers to trigger the electricity on this wire as well. I feel boxed in, pushed from behind and attacked from the front, but everything's happening too fast for me to do anything about it. Careers are in the woods behind me – what else to do but run?

I look behind one final time before hooking a supply bag more securely to my belt and making my way unsteadily to the wire. "I get it," I growl. "So let's move. Now." I see a myriad of emotions cross Roe's face before she finally settles on an annoyed look and follows after me. Coral is first, efficiently swinging down onto the wire, and this time when she's hanging safely, she offers a hand to Roe. Roe looks like she might refuse, but then the platform gives a violent lurch and she takes the help. When they're situated I finally hook myself, and I'm crouching at the edge right as the Career pack appears at the edge of the huge platform we came from.

I try to straighten, defensive, but I can't move while my wrist is locked onto the wire. I feel claustrophobic, unable to decide whether crouching here or hanging from the wire would be a worse situation. I grab my weapon anyway, brandishing the knife in what I hope is a threatening manner. I can't see them very clearly across the distance, but it looks like there are only two of them. The smaller guy and the injured girl stare at us across the void, but their other friend is missing.

"Go! Go!" Coral starts yelling, and I jump just as the platform bucks again. I nearly knock Roe off just trying to get a grip on the wire, but I'm not the only one jostling everyone around. The urgency in the air is driving us all a little wild as we concentrate on simply moving as fast as we can.

"Are they coming?" Coral pants, and I look back for a brief moment. The two Careers are watching the tiny platform dubiously as it shudders.

"No, not yet," I shout back, bracing myself for the sting of electricity that could fall at any second. My blood already feels charged with it, like the lightning has taken up a permanent home in my veins, and I hate it. If we get out of this alive, I'm never touching another one of these wires. The risk is just too great.

Coral is our cheerleader, urging us on with a constant chant of _go _and various curses. I keep glancing back, too nervous to let the Careers out of my sight. They're still lingering on the edge of the big platform, too unsure to take the plunge onto the wire, which now quivers from the movement of the smaller platform. I can't read their faces from here, but they don't look too concerned. They're not even trying to figure out a way to get across, and that sets me on edge. Are they going to just let us go? As much as I appreciate it, I can't help but wonder why.

"Just…a little…farther," Coral pants. My hands are starting to cramp, but as long as I'm not being electrocuted, I feel like I could do anything.

It feels like a victory when we finally reach the platform. Coral helps to dump Roe and I up onto the soft earth and we all collapse, just breathing hard. Coral starts to giggle quietly, then whispers, "We made it!" Her relief is infectious, and soon all three of us are laughing quietly to ourselves. We're almost giddy with the knowledge that we made it past another obstacle.

Coral lets out a peal of laughter and scoops up handfuls of the damp, loose dirt we're all sitting on. "It's sand! I haven't seen sand since I left District 4." Roe and I look at her blankly. "Come on, guys, never read about it in a textbook or something?" Roe looks acutely uncomfortable, but after looking around the platform it clicks in my brain.

"So this is a desert." The platform we're now on is hilly with wind-swept sand dunes, but that's all I can I can see in the dark, even as bright as the moon is. If my memory serves me correctly, though, there isn't much else in a desert anyway.

"Yeah." Coral frowns for only a second. "Not quite a beach, but I still love this stuff." She rubs some of the wet sand between her fingers. "It's actually kind of different here. Dustier."

"What kind of a hell-hole have you landed us on, Coral?" Roe just sounds weary, not as angry as I thought she might be. She's right, though; how are we ever supposed to set up camp in a place like this, or even defend ourselves? If we run out of the pre-packaged supplies – which are quickly dwindling, despite the multitude of bags – where will we ever find food? I don't mind the heat, but sitting out in the open in this place reminds me too much of a trap.

Coral lapses into silence for a moment, and I think that she may actually regret her split second decision to lead us into the desert. After only a few seconds, though, something wet and hard hits me in the head before crumbling, then Coral is up and dancing around us, whooping in victory. "Score one for me!"

I fish sand out of my hair and stare at it. "Was that…a snowball?" Coral cackles and launches another one at me, which I barely avoid.

"Hey," I challenge, scooping up my own handful of sand. It's dark, but I squint and lob it at her with as much accuracy as I can.

She screams, and I think that I must have hit her. I bend to scoop up another handful, but then sheet lightning branches out across the sky and the full scene is revealed to me.

All I can see for a second is the way that a few pieces of stray hair have caught on her extravagant eyelashes. My eyes narrow in on it, as if it's the only important thing in the world at this moment. It takes me longer to see the way her eyes are wide with pain, the pupils nearly rolled back in her head. It takes me a minute before it registers that she's clutching at her chest, and that something that's not rain is spurting from underneath her hands. I don't realize at first that my "snowball" is lying, harmless, on the ground behind her.

The figure looming behind her blends in with the sand and shadows, but it's easy to see the way his arm jerks upwards, driving the knife deeper with violent efficiency. It's suddenly very clear to me the way that he holds Coral, almost as if he is embracing her. I can see his eyes now, reflecting back the light of numerous crashes of lightning behind us.

It's then that I learn what death is.

He yanks the knife out and Coral falls backwards, almost like she intended to collapse into his arms. That's when he draws her close and ruthlessly stabs, again and again, into her stomach. She screams every time, animal screams that don't sound human. But he just keeps going, as if it's effortless for him to make the fluid motion of flicking his wrist. In, out. In, out.

I make the mistake of looking her in the eyes. She is doubled over in his arms, her neck protruding at a gruesome length as she tries desperately to angle herself away from him. Her face is almost purple in the dim light, and contorted so that all I can see are her lips, drawn back as she screams, and her too-wide eyes. This isn't Coral anymore. It's just death, gruesome and simple.

I say goodbye. I let her go.

And I make the choice to run.

I lock Roe's arm in an iron grip and yank on her so hard that she nearly falls. We turn our backs on Coral as she dies and save ourselves, and the full implications of this betrayal hit home so hard that my throat closes up. She would have saved us. She _has _saved us. Coral would have done anything for either one of us, but now she's convulsing and screaming in the arms of some stranger as we run.

She's still screaming.

Roe falls into step beside me, but I still won't let go of her arm. We're in silent agreement now, to run despite the price. I can see her wincing, bracing herself, but I don't understand why until a crack even louder than the thunder resounds all around us.

Coral's cannon fires, but I still think that I can hear her screaming.


	22. Chapter 22

**I am so, so unsatisfied with this chapter. It got worse every time I tried to edit it, but I'm just giving up and posting it anyway. I've kept you guys waiting for too long already. Sorry about that; life was really exciting for a while with out of state rock concerts and whatnot, and I was none too concerned about writing. ;) I hope you will find some value in this chapter, because I certainly couldn't. ^^;**

I can feel pieces of myself breaking off and ricocheting into the dense air. Eerily, though, my feet keep running, churning over swells of hard-packed, wet sand. It doesn't feel like I should be able to run. It feels like I should be burying myself in the sand and trying to put myself back together again.

The urge to survive is a primal instinct, though. It's stronger than I am, so I keep running. A Career is somewhere behind us, charging after our footprints through the black night. And with him travels Coral's blood, which is surely still slick on his hands.

A piece of her is still running, even now.

I can see her face purpling. I can hear the hoarse screaming. I can even see the confusion, a dim spark as I made the mistake of looking into her eyes. _She had no idea what was happening to her._

Sweat that trickles down my brow and into my eye feels like blood. Maybe it should be blood. Maybe I should bleed with Coral, because it's not like her blood isn't on me already_. _He hit her so hard that pinpoints of her life are splattered across my arms. Is she still bleeding back there? Dead, but she's wide open, sand mixing with parts of her that have never touched the open air before. The blood has to go somewhere.

And it's stopped raining. Nothing to wash the stains away now.

Why am I still running? I can't run faster than the guilt. But I can't seem to stop. The urge to survive is still stronger, screaming in my ear for me to _be faster. _My fingers are still wrapped, white-fleshed, around Roe's wrist. I'm dragging her, too.

She's crying. That's the thing that gets me. She's staring at the ground, and tears are slipping down as she trips and fumbles her way over every dip in the ground. In fact, she looks like she's only running because my sheer momentum is pulling her along. I wouldn't even call it running so much as flying through the air, half on her feet and half on her knees.

I can feel the bruises I'm already etching into her skin, but I yank her closer anyway. If she's an arm's length away, eventually she's going to fall and never get back up. I'm practically carrying her now, but she doesn't even look up. Doesn't she want to live? I can't keep pulling her forever.

But she's the only thing that makes sense anymore. Coral's out there somewhere, seeping her life away, and everything's gone to hell, but Coral picked Roe as her ally, and they were as close to friends as two people can get in the arena. If nothing else, I know that Coral would want me to try my hardest to keep Roe alive in the arena. At least for a little while. Not because I've ever liked Roe, but because Coral was in the line of fire tonight and provided a distraction to the Career for long enough that we could get a head start. I have to repay her somehow. If it's with Roe, then fine. We could all be dead by morning, but dawn is already starting to break, and I think I can at least keep Roe alive until then.

It's becoming a struggle for me to carry her any longer. I finally catch sight of her eyes as she staggers along, but they give nothing away. They're blank and distant, a thousand miles away. I suddenly want to shake her, hard, until she's fixed.

She trips again, heavy in my arms, and it's the breaking point. "Run, damnit!" I snap at her, roughly pulling her up. My voice is hoarser than I expected – harsh with tension and fear. This time she glances up at me, and I see some color return to her eyes.

"Then let go of me!" She retorts, but her voice catches in a sob halfway through. She's so scared that it almost reeks in the air, and I wonder how much she really means that. If I let go of her, she's never going to keep up. I'll never see her again.

I wrench my hand back, releasing her arm, and the sudden lack of momentum sends her flying. She lands on her knees, cupping the wet sand under her hands. She's so tiny against the rolling expanse of sand that I almost want to help her up, despite dropping her in the first place, but I clench my fists and watch her impassively.

She coughs and sits up, pushing her soaked hair behind her ears as she gets her tangled legs underneath her. She refuses to look at me for a moment, too busy curling and uncurling her fingers as if to make sure that they work. Sand is trapped underneath her chewed-off fingernails, but she doesn't notice or care.

She whips her head up suddenly to meet my eyes and try on a brave glare, but the normal intensity of Roe's eyes is gone. I can see her trying to muster it up, but it's clearly beyond her reach. Fear battles with anger in her eyes now, and it looks like the fear has won. She blinks hard and her eyebrows loosen, her concentration broken. I see her cave in and bite her lower lip as she looks away.

"What do you want, Roe?" I hiss in a low voice, demanding her eyes. She stares resolutely away and I set my jaw, waiting for her to cave again. There's silence for a long moment, and I can feel the seconds ticking away as I wait for her. I imagine that I can hear the Career's labored breaths somewhere in the distance, still giving chase.

I have to do something. With or without Roe, I have to keep moving. I'm tethered by Coral's death to this girl, though, and I'm desperate for one last ditch effort. I turn slowly, sand collecting on the toe of my ragged shoes, and check that the bag - the last bag, since Coral's two bags are still somewhere with her body – is still hooked securely to my belt. It's this movement that I hope will make Roe think I'm leaving her here. And maybe I am. But for right now, I just want to see if this will be enough to make her swallow her pride. If she can suck it up long enough to come with me, then maybe everything will work out.

I don't realize until I start walking away how much I wanted that to work.

But she just sits there, limp in the sand, her face set. She's forcing me to walk away. She's just too proud. I exhale angrily, already imagining her death in my head, and frustration wells up at what has to be done. I don't like to feel helpless, especially in a place like this, and I have to remind myself that Roe means nothing to me. Nothing.

I start moving in earnest, and with each step I feel weight crush my shoulders lower and lower. It's not guilt, exactly, that makes me so frustrated. It's the complete inability to change a single thing in this arena, from Coral's death to Roe's stupidity. I get the feeling it's all mapped out, and that maybe the Gamemakers have more control over all of this than I originally thought. I want to hit something – maybe even the Gamemakers themselves – but out here in the middle of the arena, what is there for me to do?

"Shit," I hear someone mutter in a decidedly masculine voice. I let out an involuntary hiss of surprise and fumble for the knife that's no longer at my belt as I see that damned Career standing at one of the sandy ridges behind Roe and I. His face is painted in blood, smeared in it all the way up to his hairline. It's already matting in his hair, but I'd bet that it's still warm. Still fresh, like Coral's still bleeding all over him.

He's staring dumbly down at his arm, as if he can't believe what he sees. His lips are parted in surprise as his eyes rake over a spot near the crook of his elbow. I can't really see whatever it is in the half-light, but I'd assume that, judging by the silhouetted trickle that's slowly dripping down to the sand, he has a wound of his own. He holds his arm up a little higher, as if trying to see it in better light. That's when I catch four distinct bands of red that smear around his biceps. I may be imagining things, but it looks like someone's bloody fingers have wrapped around his arm.

I catch on a moment later. Coral must have gotten him. I almost want to laugh as I watch his blood mix with hers on his arm, but I can't even force wheezing air past my lungs. At some point, Coral fought back. It's then that a sick feeling crawls into my stomach, whispering in my ear that _maybe she had a chance. _When else would she have cut him if not after Roe and I had run? I didn't see her fighting back while we were there. I left her because I thought it was hopeless, but what if the tides turned right after I turned my back?

_Damn. _I feel sick as I imagine her getting the upper hand, only to diebecause no one was there to help her. Because I ran away.

"Huh," the Career grunts, finally looking up to meet my eyes. I freeze, chained in place by the promise of the knife in his hands. I see Roe stiffen, finally catching on to the situation. She's a good ten feet closer to him than I am, right in his line of fire.

"You know, your girlfriend gouged the hell out of me. Sharp nails," he comments lazily, dropping his arm and baring his neck. "Look. Even here." Roe whimpers under her breath, as frozen in place as I am.

"And my back, too. She ripped my shirt all to shreds. Plus, she bit me. More than once, I think." He winces and stretches before catching our eyes again and winking. "It was a pretty nice fight, considering she was weaponless. And hot."

"Bastard," I spit out, breath rushing back into my lungs after being absent for so long. His gaze was raking over Roe, but after my outburst he glances in my direction with curiosity. The look in his eyes is disgustingly similar to Coral's when I met her – open, curious, bright. And dangerously detached, enough so that he could kill without feeling a thing. My stomach rolls at the comparison, but I can see the resemblance. Coral, despite everything good about her, was never quite right. I watched her kill people without batting an eye, and never once saw any remorse. He looks the same way, as if he sees nothing wrong with it, and I wonder if all of the Careers are this way.

They're like children. Innocent, in a way, and raised to believe that human life means nothing.

But I'm willing to forget it that as I watch this Career's eyes dance at the mention of the fight with Coral. _She's dead now, _can't he see? He killed her. And he enjoyed it, taking no more away from it than a few scratches and the observation that she was a pretty girl; or at least that she was before he smeared her insides across the sand.

He grins, and his teeth are too white, like Coral's. "You're not as nice-looking," he chuckles, "but I think you'll be more fun." I watch the innocence in his eyes slip away, and as malice replaces it I begin to second guess my theory that the Careers are more like children than killers.

His words jolt Roe into action, and she begins to scramble backwards, almost crab-walking, towards me. I rip the bag off of my belt and shake it desperately as the Career begins a slow lope towards us.

"Not gonna run?" He asks, and I frantically grab at the contents of the bag. I know I've found something when a long edge bites into the pads of my fingers, and I tug on the blade until it pulls free of all of the straps of the bags. Winking at me is Coral's curved blade, the same one she nearly killed me with. I feel unsteady as I stare at it, thinking of how the Career had slurred the word _weaponless _as if it meant nothing to him. Coral died because she had no way to defend herself, and what she desperately needed for survival was hanging from my belt the whole time I watched her die. If she had just had this, we could have all gotten out alive.

Roe's back slams into my legs as she finally reaches me, and she nearly knocks me over when she uses my arm to haul herself to her feet. "Got any more of those?" She blurts in my ear.

"Here," I tell her roughly, shoving the bag into her hands. That's when the Career decides to charge, lumbering towards us with alarming efficiency. He's huge, but he's still eating the ground up like it's nothing. I find myself thinking too many things at once as he comes at us, his relatively small knife clutched between meaty fingers. Should I sidestep him? Try to get behind him? I have the bigger weapon, so maybe if I can move faster than he does…

His hair is flopping crazily about his eyes. Could I blind him, maybe? Or trip him, send him flying to the sand and get the upper hand? Maybe if I charged back at him, that would be best. I'm not so intimidating in comparison to this monster, but I might be able to get a stab in before he did.

I know that I'm thinking too hard, but if I could just-

And I miss the chance to do anything at all. I feel his weight slamming into me before I feel the slow sinking of his blade into my stomach.

I hear someone groan – which surely couldn't be me – and a shriek from somewhere behind me.

"Arden!" I realize that it's Roe. I can distantly feel her hands on my arms – holding me up? I must have fallen back on her. "Stand up!"Her words running together, bright with fear. It hits me a second that my vision is dark around the edges, faded so that I can hardly see, and that I can't move to do anything, not even to get off of Roe.

With a tremulous hand, Roe snatches at my wrist. I want to shake her off, but I still can't move.

"Sorry," she whispers, and I only have to wonder why for a second before she dumps me. I struggle to stay on my feet, clutching at the air, but I just can't. The sand is hard and damp as I hit, rubbing my skin raw when I fall. I'm still bleeding somewhere, I realize as fire begins to creep up my abdomen.

"You're not nearly as pretty as she was," the Career sneers, and I hear Roe cry out. I blink hard, trying desperately to clear away the blurriness in my vision, to see Roe standing with her arms outstretched, trying to hold the Career back as best she can. She wouldn't have a chance if not for Coral's weapon, which I guess she must have snatched from me, that is shaking in her outstretched hand. He pauses, looking at it quizzically, as I struggle to haul myself to my feet.

But he's not going to give me the opportunity to get up. He lunges at Roe, grabbing at her waist, just as she desperately strikes out with Coral's curved blade. Of course, it doesn't hit anywhere that could save her. It only hooks his left arm in the curve of the knife, and he smirks at it right before she digs into his captive arm.

His wrist. She hit his wrist. She yelps as blood spatters from his cleanly slit wrist, dirtying her own hands. She drops the weapon and nearly knocks me down again as she reels backwards.

He stops in his tracks, clutching his wrist. "I'd say you 'bout got me there," he tells Roe, not looking up. We're stuck in an awful, frozen moment as he studies his arm. "Better than your friend, anyway."

Not quite good enough. While it was a good place to cut, she must not have gone deep enough, because the blood's just not flowing fast enough to suggest that she cut any important arteries. He's bleeding steadily, though, and we all realize that it might not be long before blood loss weakens him.

"Well, damnit," he says, almost nonchalant. "I guess if I stay here, I might just end up bleeding out all over you."

I sway in place, finally on my feet, and grab Coral's knife from Roe. Even that simple movement makes fire race down my side, and I nearly drop the knife from the shock.

"I'd say you're right," I wheeze out through gritted teeth. I realize belatedly that I'm having trouble breathing, and that maybe his attack damaged me more than I thought.

"Still breathing?" He challenges, locking eyes with mine.

_Only kind of, _I think grimly as I attempt to suck in another painful lungful of air.

There's a disturbing squelch as the Career shrugs and tries to push the flaps of skin of his wrist back together again. He frowns, frustration replacing the detachment in his eyes. Can't he see he's only making it worse? But he tugs on the edges again, swearing when he pulls too hard.

"You've just made my life really difficult," he hisses, looking directly at Roe with a kind of manic anger I haven't seen yet. Gone is the unconcerned boy that was on top of the world a moment ago. I can see now that he's ready to kill. Again.

"Roe-" I start, but then I realize that there's really nothing to say. I shakily heft the knife, as if I have the kind of strength to fend him off, but he only gives it a single glance.

"Shit," the Career mutters, tearing his eyes away for just a second to look down at his wound, which is now overflowing with slippery blood.

"Now!" I snap at Roe as another blast of pain opens up my side. There's no way I'll be able to fight him, so I'd rather at least have a head start. She startles and looks at me, panicked, and gets the message a second later when I turn away from the Career and start lunging across the sand as fast as I can.

Now Roe's much faster than I am; an indistinct blur in front of me. After the first few feet, I get the full picture of how badly I'm bleeding. The uncomfortable wetness rubbing against my side as I stumble onward is blood, and it's only getting worse. It's slipping from underneath my shirt now, becoming a trickle that runs down my leg. I try peeling the shirt away from the tender skin as I run, but even the shift of fabric is painful.

Maybe I should have seen this coming, but I'm surprised when my knees buckle and I fall, hard, to the sand. I let out a stunned breath and lay still, only vaguely aware that blood is thick in my mouth – I must have bitten my tongue. I can see Roe still running, a wavering figure in the distance. I want to ask her to wait, but maybe it's best if she just keeps running.

The Career is still back there. Everything is starting to hurt, but I force myself to roll onto my other side, the one that's not shredded, so that I can get a gauge on how close he is.

He hasn't moved. He's watching me, still from the same spot on top of the dune. His face scrunches up once, frustrated, before he sways slightly in place and nearly loses his footing. He looks dumbly down at his arm again, unsteady on his feet, and spares me a final glance before turning and lumbering shakily away. "I'll be back," he calls over his shoulder, and it's too quiet as I watch him walk away.

Blood is pooling rapidly in my cheek, so I spit that out before hauling myself up onto my elbows.

"Why is he leaving?" Roe asks breathlessly as she comes to stand beside me. I shrug, but the movement makes me wince and she notices. "What happened to you?" She demands sharply, some of the old fire returning to her eyes.

"You saw," I snap back, but it falls flat. "He stuck me." I can't help the fit of coughing that follows, shaking my torso.

"Where?"

I point vaguely at the quickly widening blood stain on my shirt. I'm not even sure where it is, and I'm sure as heck not too eager to probe around and find out.

"That's not what I meant," she mutters, dropping the matter of the Career entirely and crouching down next to me to pull me into a sitting position. My side protests at the movement, but I manage not to hit Roe in retaliation.

"Do you want to bleed to death or not? We have to fix this." She levels her eyes at me, eyebrows furrowed. She still looks haunted, like she's waiting for something to attack her from behind.

"I'm fine," I protest irrationally, watching the blood spread. I'm still caught between reliving Coral's death in my head and living in the present, and I don't have the energy to fight with Roe. My head droops, exhausted, but I look up again when Roe huffs in surprise.

"Since when do we have sponsors?" She's clutching a little silver parachute like it's a lifeline.


	23. Chapter 23

**Slowly but surely, this story is going to get there. Finally, another update! I hope you guys are still hanging around. :)**

Since when _do _we have sponsors? We haven't done anything impressive, or even noteworthy, besides losing Coral and getting attacked just now. And we didn't even fight the Career off. He left, for whatever reason, without even attempting to finish us off. I'm still bleeding, and I probably wouldn't survive another attack, but I'm almost angry at him for taking off like that. Now he's left us waiting for him to show up, and we have to watch our backs, paranoid, until he decides to grace us with his presence again.

And he had no reason to leave us waiting like this. He could have easily killed us, so I don't understand whatever ulterior motive that's underneath this. Surely Roe didn't hurt him enough to make him back off. He was bleeding pretty heavily, but it would have only taken him a few minutes to get rid of us. His hasty retreat to camp just doesn't make sense.

But next time I'll be waiting for him.

Roe is tearing into the little silver packet, and it looks about ready to shred under her fingers. I don't know what she's hoping for - food? We haven't eaten since last night, when we began our panicked flight across the arena. A weapon? The one we have now curves in a silver arc in the sand, dropped at Roe's side.

Two white bundles drop out, and I realize that this gift is for me.

"Bandages," Roe mutters, shaking the bag. And a little tube." She blinks, looking into the plastic bottle. "Is this…soapy water?" Her tone turns disdainful.

"It'll work," I argue, taking the bottle from her. It's a cheap gift, but it's better than nothing. I wish I could have something a little more potent, but this might get the job done.

I gingerly peel my shirt over my head, wincing as the blood-soaked cloth clings to the gash. Roe discreetly turns her head, and I want to laugh.

My torso is a mess, so stained with blood that I can't even find the wound. After a bit of prodding, though, I find the inch wide gash that's still seeping. I badly want to clean the blood off, but there's nothing to do that with and I'm probably going to get dirty again anyway.

"Ow," I hiss under my breath as I carefully pour the soapy water over the wound. It looks small, but it burns like hell, and I don't even want to know how deep it is. When the tiny bottle is empty, I grab one of the rolls of bandages and hastily wrap it around the bloodied area. It's so tight that I can hardly breathe, but I figure that that's good for it.

Roe shoves another white bundle into my arms, and this one is tangled with various straps. It takes a minute of staring, but then I realize it's a much more advanced version of Greene's splint. My left arm is still broken, and Greene's skilled splint is coming loose so that pain periodically shoots up my arm. I'm wary of undoing the splint, but if I don't there's always the chance that I'll hurt my arm worse.

I fumble to untie Greene's thick knots and free my arm, which is purpled with blotchy bruises. The cut that I got during the bloodbath looks like child's play now, only a thin scratch that's crusted over with sand and dried blood.

I hastily cover it with the thick splint, unwilling to try to gauge the extent of my injuries.

I want to say thank you to whatever sponsor sent me this gift, but I can't bring myself to say anything out loud. "Well," I begin, and my word hangs in the air. "At least that knife didn't hit anything important. I think." Roe grunts in agreement, staring off into space.

_You sure about that? _The tremulous voice catches me off guard, and I realize just how quiet Day has been recently, like she's not even there. She's almost forgettable when my life - our lives - are not in imminent danger.

Her voice catches in a sob. _It kinda hurts like it got something important. _She takes a long, shaky breath, and it hits me how brave she's trying to be. But she's just a little girl, so pain that I can shrug off must mean more to her. As she fights back sobs, I don't want to think of some monster tearing her apart in the bloodbath she died in.

_Hey, _I begin awkwardly. _I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I mean, I didn't want to get you hurt._

Her laugh is the kind of laugh someone makes right after they've been crying - shaky and quiet, but still there. It almost sounds like relief.

_You didn't mean to hurt me? _She giggles, and breathes hard. _I didn't think you meant it. I trust you, Arden. _

The silence that follows seems awkward to me, but Day's obviously comfortable spouting off warm declarations of trust despite our situation. I don't think I deserve it, or particularly want her trust, but I'm still glad. Despite the responsibility this gives me, I want to make her happy. Or as happy as I can, given our position in the arena. I don't even know if it's even a good thing to want to help her when she's practically leeching on my brain, but I'm so sick of fighting her off. I'm tired of feeling terrible every time I shut her down.

Day promptly disappears, just a warm presence somewhere in the back of my head, and I'm struck by just how aware I am of Roe. Awkwardness settles heavily between us, and I pull my shirt on, despite how it's wet with blood. I attempt to settle myself comfortably in the sand, but it's hard because my side is still on fire and I have to lean to one side to ease up on the knife wound. Coral's bag is settled in the sand in front of me, so I turn it over and dump it out, desperate for something helpful. A packet of dried fruit. One of the empty water jugs. A bag of crusty old bread. An extra jacket. Some matches. And that's it.

Not what I hoped for. There's not even enough for dinner tonight. Sighing, I shove everything back into the bag and start staring down at the sand. Roe is still quiet, sitting away from me and picking at the ground. We sit like that for a few minutes, unsure of ourselves now that the immediate danger is gone.

"Look, this is an official alliance, right?" Roe speaks up, and her voice is harsh.

I don't see how anything can be "official" in the arena, but I can tell that she wants at least something to be stable when everything else in the arena is falling apart.

"Yeah," I decide, cementing the deal, even if Coral isn't around to keep us together. I was only sticking with Roe to protect her for Coral's sake, and only for the day, but I want to prove that we can keep it together. Just the two of us.

"Right," Roe says, sounding detached. If this is an alliance, it's not going to be a very emotional one. "So this is our camp?"

Looking around, I don't see anywhere else we possibly _could _go. All I see are sand dunes that stretch on, all the way to some invisible edge to the platform. Where else on this platform could be better than right here? We only have one pair of handcuffs now- the ones still on my wrist - so crossing platforms isn't an option. We almost died the last time we tried that.

"Where else?" I ask flatly. She shoots me a look and then nods.

"I guess," she mutters, and the topic is closed.

I don't even have time to muse this over, because then there's a brief booming noise. Then another.

I jump at the cannon blasts, swearing as my movement disrupts my side. Roe spooks and stands, retrieving Coral's curved blade and holding it up defensively.

But nothing happens. No one comes charging through the sand at us, and it's useless to get so worked up when the danger is elsewhere. Roe sits back down, but she continues to fiddle with the knife in her hands.

"Two cannons? And they were so close together." Roe frowns, thinking. "So it must have been an alliance that got attacked or something."

I don't want to think about death. I don't want to think about cannons. "Are we in the final seven?" It seems unlikely that I could have ever lasted this long.

"Yeah. I guess so." Roe fingers the blade carefully, sliding her fingers lightly down the edge and staring intently at it. "But I'm still nervous." She looks up, and there's a spark of fear in her eyes that makes me wonder if she actually does have emotions.

"Wherever those cannons came from, it wasn't here. Relax." I realize a moment later than I'm reassuring her, and it feels odd, but I suppose that's what alliances do.

She glimpses at me with hard eyes. "I'm taking the first watch." I feel like I've just been brushed off, but what was I thinking? That Roe would appreciate my efforts at making this a halfway compatible alliance?

"You want me to sleep?" My voice is sharper than I meant it to be.

"No, not necessarily. If you'd like, you can take the first watch." She shoots me a challenging glance, and I understand that this is her form of charity. I suppose that in exchange for a kind word, I get to sleep first. She must not want to leave any debts unpaid.

And it's not like I'm not tired. I've been trying not to think about it, but the fact is that we were running all night, not sleeping. If she wants to sit up all day and stare at the sand, by all means, she can. I could use the rest, especially since I'm such a wreck. I don't think I've ever been so exhausted.

I have to remind myself that she's doing this to be nice, not because of some sabotage she has planned. I have to remember that I trust her enough to fall asleep without wondering whether or not she'll kill me in my sleep.

I try to judge her out of the corner of my eye. She looks stoic, blank-faced, but not like she has anything up her sleeve. So I take her offer at face value.

"No, it's ok. I appreciate that." Everything is stiff and formal, the way I'm beginning to realize the rest of the alliance is going to be. Without Coral, the emotional factor has been taken out. I never thought I would, but I'm starting to wish that someone crack a smile. She stares me back, though, without a hint of emotion, and I know that I'd better learn to deal with it.

"Right," I say after a moment of silence, and the built-up sigh comes heaving out before I can contain it. I duck away from her increasingly cold eyes and try to get comfortable in the sand. Hopefully I'll be able to fall asleep before I begin to seriously second-guess whether or not this alliance is a good idea.

"I'll see you in a few hours," she says flatly, right before my eyes close.

**x.x.x.x**

It's too dark when I wake up. There's a deep boom ringing in my ears that's out of place, and there are stars spinning above my head. I scramble up with alarm pounding in my ears, blinking hard when I see the patch of light bearing the Capitol symbol just above my head. The symbol disappears to be abruptly replaced with a moment of darkness.

I have to rub my eyes. I find it impossible to believe that Roe would have let me sleep this long, so I'm either still dreaming or something is seriously wrong. She's not charitable enough to turn down a chance to sleep, even if she did take the first watch.

I tear my eyes away from the screen, sweeping the dark sand. The landscape is empty except for a tiny bundle in the sand, which, after a second of squinting, I realize is Roe. She looks too small, curled up as she is.

I wonder numbly if she's dead.

"Roe?" I whisper, tentatively reaching out to shake her shoulder. She couldn't be dead. Not just like that. I'm completely unprepared for this – there's no blood, and no sign of a Career. I just don't understand.

She bolts upright and shoots me the evilest look that I have ever seen contort a person's face.

"Don't touch me!" she hisses, slapping my hand away before coming to her senses and realizing that she's awake. We stare at each other for a moment, and I can't help the tiny squeak of relieved laughter that escapes my iron defenses.

"Sleeping on the job?" I blurt, biting my lip as my grin spreads.

"You idiot," she snaps, but doesn't defend herself. I snort as she turns angrily away, her eyes glued to the sky.

"District One?" Roe's surprised huff makes me look back to the sky. A girl with a classic Career smirk stares down on us as the screen announces her death. I remember Coral driving a knife up her back when she attacked us back on the other platform, but she didn't look slowed by that injury at the time.

Then she's gone, to be quickly replaced with another familiar face.

"He's dead?" Surprise jolts through me at the same time Roe sucks in a breath.

The words next to his picture proudly proclaim that he was District Two's male tribute, and that his name was Codan Mason. A normal enough name, and a normal enough picture, but all I can think of when I see his face is Coral's blood.

"I should have killed him first," I mutter. Even so, satisfaction curls up inside of me when I watch his face smile back at us one last time before his picture is whisked away.

"I'm glad," Roe says quietly. It's not much, but just to know that Coral's murderer didn't outlive her by long makes me think that maybe some justice can be won in the arena.

I look at her, unsure of what to say, before she turns abruptly away and buries her head in her hands. I'm confused until a wreath of red hair demands my attention back up on the screen.

I'd forgotten about this part. In this picture, Coral is smiling radiantly, without a hair out of place, but then I start imagining blood staining her skin, the way it was when she begged me for help. I think hollowly that this is the hardest thing that I've ever done.

Beside me, Roe starts to cry softly, and I have to squeeze my eyes tightly shut until the anthem plays itself out and the night is dark again.


	24. Chapter 24

**Yet another chapter. It's a really good thing I'm not trying to do Nanowrimo at the same time. :) I think this chapter's a bit choppy, but you guys can be the judges of that. Drop me a review if you have anything to say!**

"We're in the final seven." Roe jerks me back to reality as the screen above our heads dims and vanishes. Tears are still drying on her face, but her eyes are fierce again. It looks like whatever grief she harbored for Coral has already been replaced. "Ok? That's all that matters." She's a soldier now, focused on the statistics.

"This leaves one Career, and six of us." She rattles off the numbers, and I'm forced to try to forget Coral once again. The thing is - I don't want to. It feels wrong to let her go like she never existed; like she never saved the two of us or became a friend.

"That gives us a chance, you know." I'm still struggling to hold onto Coral's image, but Roe's right. I can't remember another time when the odds were so stacked against a Career. If someone else manages to take him out, we could be in the clear. I'm not sure what districts are left in the running, and I don't know anything about the other tributes, but I can't imagine a threat greater than the last remaining Career.

"How do you think they died?" I interrupt abruptly.

"They were both wounded." She answers warily, like initiating a conversation with me over something that doesn't involve immediate danger is unsteady territory. "Maybe that was it."

I see Coral driving a knife into that girl again, and Roe nervously cutting open the Career's wrist, almost without meaning to.

"At the same time?" My tone is doubtful, and it's enough to spark a burst of defensiveness in her eyes.

"Fine, then," she snaps. "Someone killed them."

"The other Career," I fill in. "Since they were already hurt, it wouldn't have been very hard."

_That's kinda weird though, isn't it? _Day pipes up, and I find it strange that Roe can't hear this end of the conversation. Day seems comfortable, though; chattering on despite our patchy relationship and her limitations. She seems energetic, fueled by our new circumstances. I wonder absently whether the frequency of her comments has anything to do with her energy level. When nothing's happening, it's easy to forget she even exists because she's so quiet.

_I mean, a Career getting rid of his allies when there's still six of us? We could take him, easy. _Her confidence is clearly ill-informed, but I let it slide without reminding her that the final Career could tear us apart with his bare hands.

_You're right, _I lie to reassure her. _He must not be a normal Career._

I struggle to remember his face, but all I can remember is close-cropped brown hair and serious eyes. He wasn't too in on the action when the Careers ambushed us. He just watched.

"Are you paying any attention?" Roe looks disgruntled, wrinkles forming at the base of her nose.

I blink. "To what?"

"You need to stop zoning out," she mutters bitingly. I guess I shouldn't expect any sympathy from her.

An itch crawls up inside my mind. Shouldn't Roe understand why I'm zoning out? It's difficult to have a conversation with two people at once, especially when one is a voice in your own head, and surely she should have experience with that. I sneak a glance at her, but she's wearing her usual expression – lip bitten, and eyebrows scrunched tight over her eyes. She doesn't look particularly concerned with anything that might be going on in her own head.

I suddenly want to ask her about it. I want to know how she deals with it, because I'm not the only one with a voice like Day. Maybe that's why she's so angry all the time. I'm well accustomed to that anger after spending some time with a voice in my head.

Roe sighs heavily, interrupting my thoughts. "Can we have dinner?" Her face is drawn and tired. "Or something to drink."

"I only have this one bag." I twist to grab it, and swear when my side burns angrily. I ease back into place, remembering that the wound is still open. In fact, it seems to hurt even more than it did last night. I try to will the sting away, but I can't help the nagging worry that it could be infected.

"It's the only one I got from Coral," I explain as the pain subsides. Roe blinks at the mention of her name, but her features are hardened, allowing nothing to slip by. I dump it out on the ground in front of me, and Roe scoots over to sit across from me in the sand.

"Bread and dried fruit?" She's disappointed, unsurprisingly. That's not enough to fill up one of us, and the bread is crusty and old.

"It'll work," I mutter, tearing off chunks of the bread and handing them to her. She gulps them down almost painfully, then finishes off her share of the fruit.

"Thanks," she says quietly. I finish mine and we're left to look at each other uneasily. She glances away first, towards a newly cloudy sky. The clouds continue to gather and darken, reminding me of how quickly the storm sprang up on the night that we left the oasis and got ambushed by the Careers. The storms must be engineered by the Gamemakers when they need something exciting to happen. Right now the clouds are hovering on the edge of the arena, indecisive, but I don't doubt that they'll start moving towards us soon.

"It's going to rain," Roe announces under her breath as the clouds slowly rumble closer. The idea of sitting in the sand and getting soaked isn't appealing, but we don't have any other choice without shelter. Maybe our first priority should have been to build some shelter, but it's too late now. I think the two of us can handle getting a little wait.

Roe goes silent, head down, and I can tell that she's thinking hard. "You think that bag will hold water? When it rains, I mean."

I glance at the bag. It's almost translucent and very thin. I don't know much about fabric, but there are no visible holes, so I shrug. "It's our best bet."

Roe bites her lip and spreads the bag out as best she can so that the rain will collect inside of it. I watch her as her eyes follow the clouds, and she swallows hard in anticipation. My mouth is so dry that I can understand her impatience.

"Now we wait, I guess," she says, half to herself. A moment later she's standing and pacing around out camp, staring down at the sand. I'm tempted to get up and do something as well, but one movement convinces me that it's not a good idea. Fire lances down my side and I wince, shifting again so that I'm not putting any weight on it. I hadn't realized how incapacitated I would be by this wound, but now that I can't get up I understand how dangerous this could be. If we were ambushed I wouldn't stand a chance, and the very thought of being trapped like this fills me with frustration.

"It's getting dark," I comment absently as the clouds thicken above us and the silence between us stretches to the point of being uncomfortable. I can't help but think that these clouds are a direct challenge from the Gamemakers, but Roe doesn't seem concerned. She's acting like the storm is a gift. I've had enough experience with the Games to be wary of any unexplained gifts, but I don't want to bring that up when Roe is this moody.

Roe only perks up after the first droplet falls onto her open wrist. "It's starting," she breathes in relief, holding out her hands, and then her tongue, as it begins to rain in earnest.

"Is it collecting in the bag?" Roe asks as I stick my tongue out as well. I muster an '_mhm' _as I swallow a tiny mouthful. She looks dubiously at the bag, which is deflated and damp under the downpour, as water trickles down her nose. I see her try to catch the droplet with her tongue, and try not to laugh.

As the rain's tempo increases, I'm getting thoroughly soaked everywhere except for my mouth. Clots of blood weaken and fall off of my hair and clothes, but I still feel far from clean. I wish I could stand and enjoy the rain, but instead I'm left to sit uncomfortably in the wet sand.

Roe is shifting the bag meticulously when the rain abruptly stops. She frowns fiercely, peering up at the dark sky as if it should apologize.

"What happened?" Her tone is, predictably, annoyed, as if the rain shouldn't stop without her say.

I wish I could chalk this up to a natural stop, but it's more likely that the Gamemakers are messing with us. Now that we're gaining from the rain, they want to take it away. It makes me wonder whether their storm stretches out over the entire arena, or if it's designed specifically for our platform.

Roe drops her angry gaze reluctantly and hoists the bag. "There's only a little water." She squints inside and tips it slowly back so that a long trickle runs past her lips. "Your turn."

I do the same, and despite how little I actually swallow, it's a relief to swallow something at all. Then I start packing everything back into the bag, glad to have something to occupy my hands, until I'm done and Roe and I are forced to sit silently under the clouds. It seems that the tension in our alliance always grows when we're not in immediate danger.

"What if it rains again?" Roe asks, and by the tone of her voice, I figure that she's only bringing that up to be argumentative. Yeah, if it starts to rain again, the bag won't be able to collect any more water, but hasn't she learned anything about Gamemakers? They're not going to give us anything we want.

I choose not to answer, instead rocking back as a stray tuft of hair flops into my eyes. If Coral was here, I would tease her about giving a bad haircut. I don't want to think about why I can't tell her that.

Roe glares at me sideways, and I look away. I focus on the sky instead, willing Roe's bad attitude to disappear before I go crazy. It's still just as dark as before, when it was raining, but now a sharp wind is picking up and ruffling the hair I have left. I wonder bitterly how fast the Gamemakers could whip up a storm to blow us away, since the rain didn't work.

"Give me that extra jacket," Roe says after yet another stretch of silence. I pry it out of the bag and toss it to her, meeting her eyes in what I hope is not a hostile look. Screwing my face into a conciliatory look is hard after all the tension, but I think I achieve it enough that she believes it.

Roe studies me for a second, then her searching gaze drops. "How dangerous do you think this wind can get?" I can see the cogs turning in Roe's mind as she asks, finally reaching the conclusion that this might be another weapon aimed at us by the Gamemakers. She actually looks a little bit worried now, with her eyes squinted to hide herself, and I find myself reconsidering the things I've thought about her. Are we friends? I don't think so, but I can't be sure that I hate her when she acts as human as everyone else.

"As bad as they want it to be," I answer, and that sounds too dark, so I quickly amend it with, "and however fast they can make the wind."

She looks dubious, and for whatever reason, I don't want to leave her hanging like that. She looks genuinely scared now, back to biting her lip. "It's not like the wind can actually hurt us out here. If we were with trees, I'd be worried. But the wind can't pick up anything and hit us, so we'll be fine. Whatever they do."

She nods and goes back to drawing her arms around herself as the wind starts to howl and moan. Even if those sounds are created in a Gamemaker's box, the wind is real enough to start dragging tufts through the wet sand and build new dunes. Roe watches the wind's movement uneasily, clearly unnerved by the sight of the damp sand moving under the wind. Maybe I'm insensitive, but I don't understand why it's such a problem. We get wind all the time in District 7, where it can actually be dangerous, and I'm not that concerned. Roe must not have experience with wind like this in whatever District she's from. I strain to remember whether or not she ever told me what district she comes from, but I don't think she has. That strikes me as strange, especially when the common arena greeting is your name and district.

We edge closer to each other by silent agreement as it gets colder and stormier, relying now on each other's body heat. I'm desperately cold as the night draws on, reminded bitterly of the cold night when I killed a girl and huddled by the fire as she slipped away. Roe's different, though. She's living and breathing and giving off her own heat, and I find it hard to imagine her ever letting go of that. Then again, that's the same thing I thought about Coral, too, and she's nothing more than a corpse now.

"You're shaking," Roe points out. By now we've shifted so that we're facing each other, backs to the wind, faces protected by the other person's warm breath. We're closer than I'd ever thought Roe would let me get, back when things were normal, but I guess her personal space doesn't matter when it's this dreary and cold. Occasionally wet clumps of sand will splatter against our cheeks, lifted by the wind to remind us of just how miserable we are.

"No, I'm not," I reply automatically, and barely manage to keep my voice steady. My teeth are shaking, at least.

Roe gives me an appraising look. "You look like hell, too. Your nose is blue."

I lift one eyebrow slowly, as my face is half frozen. "T-thanks."

"Doesn't it get this cold in Seven? You look like you're not used to this."

"Well, I'm n-not." It's impossible to make my voice firm when I'm this cold. "What about you?" Either her district is incredibly cold all the time, or she's just too unflappable and in-control of herself to let it affect you. "What district are you even f-from?" I can hear my voice turn sharp with curiosity, despite the stutter.

"District Ten," Roe answers softly, and her eyes wander off for a second, wistfully, as if she's in a different place. It's such a normal response, complete with longing, that I don't realize what's off about it until the face of a different girl, with a messy braid and a thick face, swims into my mind under the heading of "District Ten." Killed on Day One. District Ten's female tribute is long dead.

Something that I haven't thought about since nearly the beginning of the Hunger Games creeps up on me. I'm thinking of the train ride now, and of another girl with thin black hair, who was curled around herself as oily blood leaked from her skull. Dead before we even reached the arena. I see Roe again, standing on her plate right before the bloodbath, looking lost. Not the same girl as the one on the train, just similar. Just similar enough to replace a tribute that shouldn't have been dead.

"Who are you?" I demand. Not the girl from the train. Not even a real tribute in the Hunger Games. But she's here, and there's something wrong. I had let this go because I had cared for nothing more than day-to-day survival. But now it matters, because Roe is not allowed to play this game with me any longer.

"Where did you even come from?" My voice breaks into a snarl, harsh and unforgiving. Roe scrambles backwards now that I've turned on her, real fear lighting in her eyes. I see her feel for a weapon, the same one that's hooked onto my belt. I should probably feel bad that she'd feel the need to defend herself like that, but I just don't care anymore.

"Shut up!" She hisses, eyes wider than I've ever seen them. She's terrified. "I can't – I'm not telling you." Then she lashes out at me with one flat hand, and her nails graze my cheeks.

A clot of sand hits me, hard, in the side of the mouth. I have to spit out sand and mud as the storm intensifies around us, screaming with me as I grab for Roe's shoulders. Her hair whips in the wind, hiding her eyes as she struggles.

I drag her back to me as she kicks and screams, clawing at my arms desperately. I shake her shoulders fiercely as she tries to worm away, fingers dug deep into the crevices between her bones. She's too skinny, so small that she slips easily into my hands. I don't know why I haven't noticed before that her bones jut out, emaciated, beneath her clothes. My hands seem too large as I shake her harder, painting bruises onto her skin.

"Tell me!" I yell over the wind, which is oppressive now, snatching my breath. This situation seems all wrong, too dark, and I'm too afraid to let her go without fixing it. It feels like life or death.

_Arden, stop it! _Day shrieks. _Please, stop! _She's distressed, coming back at full strength now that there's something for her to fight for. I'm reminded of the way she cried when I smashed things after first meeting her, as if the violence terrified her. I don't know what she thinks – that I'd ever do something like this to her? That hurts, for just a moment, because she's such a child that I can never imagine hurting her.

_That's what you're doing! You're hurting her! _Day sobs. I want to yell at Day, order her to shut up like I used to, but our relationship has warped since then. I trust her now, and I'd protect her if it came to that. Now my hands are on Roe, who reminds me too much of a child when all I feel is her emaciated, tiny frame.

I release Roe's shoulders, and she topples back in the sand. She heaves in a sobbing breath and rolls onto her side, clutching her arms.

Even though I know it's wrong, I make the decision to follow her. I can't just let this pass, now that I've already destroyed so much in getting answers. I take her by the elbows, as gently as I can, and pull her into a sitting position. She doesn't fight back this time, or even move as I brush her wild hair back from her face so that I can see her eyes. She just stares back at me hollowly, tears on her cheeks, with her hands cupped protectively on her arms.

"You need to tell me," I say as firmly as I can manage. All I can see are the bruises that must already be forming under that jacket, but I forge on, trying to cut emotion out. I have to know, because Roe can't just be in the Hunger Games without ever being a tribute. This is the kind of thing that screws up the Gamemakers' plans. The kind of thing that will get me killed. Despite everything, I'm not ready to die just because she's masquerading as another tribute.

"The cameras," she whispers, and I wonder just how deep I've gotten myself into this. I can't imagine what she would have to say that can't be heard by Panem or the Gamemakers. That kind of information is the sort that reeks of rebellion, the very thing that put me in this arena. For a moment I'm afraid to hear, but I just keep digging my own grave.

"The cameras won't hear you, if you're quiet. I can hardly hear myself over the wind." The wind screams in reply, throwing sand and shadows up around us. I feel like I'm in hell as the cold seeps into my bones.

_Don't hurt her, _Day reproaches me tremulously, and the old fear is back like a wall between us. I've screwed everything up.

"Tell me," I force out between gritted teeth, the decision already made. Whatever damage I'm wreaking now, I have to find out what the hell is happening in this arena.


	25. Chapter 25

**Ahh! I know, that was the longest wait for a chapter yet. Sorry, but life gets in the way sometimes, and a fanfiction isn't as important. But now I'm happy to present you with chapter 25, and I hope that you guys are still hanging on for the ride. :)**

For a moment, there's a standstill and Roe and I can only stare at each other. My hands are still on her shoulders, but I'm afraid to let go of her, for fear that she might just blow away in the wind that's still clawing at us – whipping her hair into my squinted eyes and tugging ruthlessly on my clothes. More than that, though, I'm almost afraid to hear what she has to say. When there's only the wind to listen to, we still haven't screwed our alliance up past the point of return. Once she opens her mouth, though, there'll be no fixing any damage done.

"I'm not going to run," she informs me quietly, so soft against the angry wind that I have to strain to hear her. I abruptly drop her arms, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets.

"I didn't think so," I try to explain, but it's awkward to try to defend myself after that, and I don't want to give her any leniency.

"The cameras?" She mumbles, ignoring what I said. I feel wary thinking about what she must have to say that the cameras shouldn't know about, but I'm so sick of being cautious.

"Spit it out, Roe, it'll be fine. They can't hear us over the wind."

"I'm from District Ten, right?" I want to tell her that of course I don't know the answer to that question, but I can tell that the catch at the end of her sentence is only her trying to steady herself. She hurries on anyway, picking up momentum as we huddle together against the storm, praying that the cameras – and the audience that could be watching us even now – can't hear this. I feel the eyes of the Gamemakers prying at us through the veritable sandstorm, and I know that the sand that's whirling around us isn't enough to completely hide what we're doing.

"But I haven't been back there in a long time." Roe blurts the words out in a rush, rubbing one shoulder as she talks. I don't think she even knows that she's doing it, but I know exactly what's hidden under those sleeves, even if she hasn't seen the bruises yet.

"My parents weren't exactly normal, only I didn't know that at the time. Not…not like…_rebels." _I see her flinch as I shift in place, and when she starts chewing furiously on her lip, I wonder why I haven't noticed how jumpy she has been. "They weren't rebels," she says again, releasing her lip and staring up at me defiantly. She's all over the place, emotions whipping as fast as the wind across her features, and I have to reconsider whether or not this story was a good idea. I don't know if I want to hear it anymore, and she looks like she's having a hard time retelling it.

But Roe pushes on, stubborn as usual. "I thought everything was normal when I was a kid. I went to school with everyone else and everything was fine. Even my parents were fine. I was only twelve when they did it, so it's not like I really understood what was going on. Or maybe I knew what they were doing, but I couldn't do anything about it.

"My birthday was a few months before the annual Hunger Games, but I never thought anything about that. It's just that when I turned twelve, there wasn't really a celebration. My parents started acting strange and jumpy, and every time I'd walk into a room they'd look up like I wasn't supposed to hear whatever they were saying. A week or so after my birthday, I'd come home from school and my mother would be missing, or my father would be, and I wouldn't see them until it was late. I thought that was weird, but I don't think they even knew I had noticed."

I don't know where this is going, but all I can think is that her parents are dead. They must be. It's the way she cringes, and the way she stresses on "was."

"They took me into the woods in the middle of the night. I remember that they carried me part of the way because I was so tired, but they were so panicked that most of the time they just yelled at me to go faster. I didn't know what was going on, but I followed them anyway because I didn't know what else to do. They were dragging a couple suitcases behind us, but I didn't think that this was going to be permanent. I thought they were just taking me into the woods to show me something. They were acting so scared that I didn't want to question it.

"Well, the woods outside District 10 aren't really woods so much as overgrown farmland and a bunch of trees, but it was still thick enough that my parents didn't think anyone would find us. But there were also a bunch of wild animals that my parents didn't anticipate and I don't think they were prepared to deal with, so someone discovering us was not the only danger. It was really hard that first night, especially when I couldn't put a face to the weird noises I was hearing. My parents were on edge as well, which only freaked me out more.

"My parents didn't pack very well, either. They couldn't fit many of the essentials into two suitcases, so there wasn't much to eat. I was miserable, but it wasn't like I could do anything about it. I think my parents changed their minds about halfway in and decided that it wasn't a good idea, but it was too late to turn back then.

"But it's not like it lasted very long." She snaps her eyes back to mine, losing the vacant look. "As I'm sure you've guessed, we got caught." Her voice is flat, angry, like she's challenging me to say differently. I don't want to hear the rest of her story, if this is how it ends, but I have no choice anymore. I feel acutely uncomfortable as she stares me down, forcing me back into this story of hers.

"There must have been a tip or something, and it wasn't very hard for them to find us struggling through the wilderness. They didn't give us a warning or anything – just swooped in on their hovercraft and sent a couple of Peacekeepers down to get us. My parents got the message and took off running, dragging me behind, but they weren't fast enough. The Peacekeepers grabbed me and started strapping me into something that would lift me into the hovercraft, and it wasn't like I could get away. As they were strapping me in I watched some of the other men execute my mother, and then my father."

Roe's cold eyes are watching me now, waiting for a reaction.

"They cut her throat. I don't know what they did to him, but there were awful noises. They left the bodies there and lifted me into the hovercraft. I don't know why they didn't kill me too, but I suspect it has nothing to do with mercy. They must have had specific orders."

"They tied me up in the back of the hovercraft and sped back to the Capitol. Or, at least, I assume that's where they took me. I still don't know, but it's the only place I can think of that would have places like the one they put me in.

"They knocked me out, so I don't know what happened next. But when I woke up I was in a prison cell." She stares at me again, and I wonder just how deep I've gotten myself with this story. This is not the confession I thought it would be. I had always assumed that this was Roe's fault; that she was a traitor/rebel/spy, or even a mutt. I had already blamed her.

She looks at me now with a challenge in her eyes, daring me to blame her now, now that she has told me this. Daring me to touch her again. She has storm clouds in her eyes, lightning forking across her gaze. She's not stopping to reflect on the pain of her story, or of losing her parents. She's only here to make a point now, to prove me wrong. I don't know whether that's strong, or whether this is all an act.

This could all be a lie.

But she's not done, I can see as she inhales again, breaking her challenging stare and glaring at the ground. She doesn't want pity. She wants to see me – what? Admit that I was wrong? I don't think that's all she wants.

_She wants you to listen, _Day informs me quietly. She sounds sad, and I know that she has swallowed Roe's pack of lies. She pities her.

_She could be making all of this up, _I hiss back, but Day shoots back a rebuttal before I can argue my case.

_Would you just stop and take something at face value? You're making a conspiracy out of nothing._

It's a stinging remark coming from Day, normally so quiet, and I'm taken aback enough that I shut up as Roe starts again. But I can't make myself believe Roe. I'm too suspicious, even now.

"All my parents had wanted to do was protect me from the Hunger Games. Maternal instinct is strong, you know. It was a terrible plan, but they had to try. They couldn't just let me get killed like all of the other Hunger Games kids. And they truly thought it would work. They didn't think I'd end up in a prison cell.

"But that's where they put me, and I hardly knew what was happening. I didn't even see any other people for about a day, until a Peacekeeper brought me some food. I just got to sit in my concrete cell, thinking over and over again about how my parents were killed.

"I wasn't there long. The only time I ever moved was in the beginning, when I took a short trip to another part of this prison, now four stories underground. Maximum security. For the rebels.

"They thought I had a hand it what my parents did, or at least had some information, so the first thing they did was strap me down and implement basic torture methods." She doesn't flinch as she says it, but my mind is whirling, imagining twelve year olds and cold tables and screams.

_That's empathy, _Day whispers, but I can tell that it has affected her too, because her voice is trembling.

"Of course, I didn't know anything. They wanted to know about how my parents were part of a larger rebel cell, and where to find the other rebels. I couldn't tell them that my parents weren't rebels, that they were just trying to protect me. I tried lying and giving them what they wanted, but I was no good at that and I had no solid information for them."

_You're good at lying now, _I think, imagining a twelve year old with a much softer face than Roe's.

"They gave up eventually. It was no use to pursue a twelve year old when there were much more serious criminals to contend with. They dumped me and sent me to a cell in maximum security. I was twelve. Just twelve! Not some hardened criminal. Not a rebel. But they left me to rot.

"There were no faces, just disembodied voices from the other sides of the walls, but I made friends. I had to. Sometimes those friends disappeared, but that wasn't often. Mostly, my neighbors were others that were left in the cells to be forgotten. Apparently the Capitol had a habit of doing that – when we had outlived our usefulness, they had to find somewhere to store us. And pretty quickly, they got bored of us.

"The others talked of dying. Of finally being free. They said they wanted a good old firing squad in the place of the prison cells, but I don't think any of them really meant it. There were no suicides, as far as I knew.

"I didn't talk much, but I listened. I had sharp ears, and I was just young enough to be ignored. Rebel gossip passed through our hall and I knew it all. None of it was useful, or even that exciting; news so bland that the Capitol wouldn't have cared if they heard, and it was possible that some of it had even been fed to us by the Peacekeepers, as a joke. As false hope, as if someone cared enough to come rescue us.

"And, slowly, I grew up. But there wasn't much of a life to make in that cell. I tried, but it wasn't…easy. I wasn't a child anymore, and it was harder to keep hoping. When they came to take me out, I thought there were only two options. They were either going to kill me, or set me free. I didn't think that we might be coming _here _as they loaded me into a hovercraft as fast as they could and took off towards some distant place. I hardly knew what date it was, and I hadn't thought that the Hunger Games were starting that day. I didn't realize that there was a dead girl with black hair like mine, and that a little makeup would cover up our differences. I didn't realize that the Capitol was desperate to protect their agenda, and that they simply couldn't have the Hunger Games without one of the tributes.

"So that dead girl disappeared, and suddenly I was Roselie, District 11. They gave me instructions as they hurriedly suited me up. I was to run straight for the bloodbath. I wasn't supposed to live long enough for the viewers to recognize that I wasn't the same as the former District 11 tribute that they'd seen on TV. We looked alike enough that it just might work, and it wasn't like anyone paid attention to District 11, anyway. I was too skinny – fed on prison rations – but the Capitolites in charge thought that if I died quickly enough, it could work.

"When I got onto that plate, I couldn't do it. I was too scared to die, even after all of this. For 60 seconds I got to choose life or death, and I chose to run away from the Cornucopia and the Capitol, even if I was screwing up their Hunger Games. I was too weak to do what I was told. I figured my name was close enough to Roselie's to work, and I decided to play.

"Besides, how poetic was it that I was in the Hunger Games at all?" Her voice is darker now, angry. "It was just so ironic that me, a girl who was in maximum security for fleeing the Hunger Games, would finally end up right where she had feared the most." She spits the last words out. "I decided to play their game, because it made perfect sense to end up here.

"And if I win…then…" She breaks off, and I don't know if it's because she knows she's not going to win, or because she's not sure what winning means. "I beat them."

There's a long stretch of silence as we both take in what she has said.

"Final seven," she says bitterly. "I wonder how they interviewed my family?"

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, and I hope she knows how much I mean it. Not just because she's never had a life of her own, and not just because her parents are dead. For the bruises on her shoulders. For the place she's in now, that she'll probably never leave. Because the Hunger Games are the end of the line.

"I know," she whispers, and there's a catch in her voice as she begins to sniffle under her breath. Something breaks between us and it doesn't matter that Coral isn't here anymore to keep our alliance together. We huddle closer together against the angry wind, and I'm not sure anymore that Roe's story is going to destroy our alliance. I think that maybe we'll be ok.


	26. Chapter 26

**These chapters aren't happening as quickly as I'd like, but they're here, and they'll keep coming. :) Thanks for coming back, readers.**

A cannon is my wake up call.

The reverberations of the cannon are just fading into silence as I realize what's going on and struggle to get up. Sand is in my mouth and gritty between my fingers, still cold from the night's chill. My joints are stiff with the same cold as I twist upwards, every vein with hot with alarm after the cannon's call.

I try to untangle my legs and get to my feet, straining to remember even falling asleep last night. My balance is off as I claw my way up, as if my equilibrium is still asleep, and I throw my hands out to steady myself. The movement tugs on my torso, all the way down my side, and there's a decisive split as my tender wound falls apart. Sluggish blood is still seeping from the wound and darkening the thick bandage, but after all of the commotion the blood is coming faster. I jerk my hand back, staring at my discolored fingertips and trying to remember the wound being this bad. It was just a knife wound, and tributes endure much worse in the Hunger Games. Why can't I move? This wasn't supposed to happen.

I swallow panic and try to get up again. As soon as my skin shifts the pain becomes fiery again, and I feel light-headed. I have to hover in place, halfway between giving up and forcing myself to get on my feet.

_Ow, _Day whimpers, but I don't know how to comfort her. I can't just lay down. I have to fix this before it gets me killed.

"What are you doing?" Roe hisses, raking her hair out of her eyes with one hand and shoving me with the other as she scrambles up. "Stop fooling around; that was a cannon!"

I hit the sand hard, spluttering as my hands futilely try to hold me up.

"Don't go back to sleep!" Roe roars. "Get up, you idiot. Don't you get it? A cannon. That doesn't mean you can just sit down."

"You pushed me," I snap between closed teeth.

There's a pause. "Why are you bleeding?" Her tone is different now, abruptly derailed from her tirade.

"That Career, remember?" I try to get into a mostly defensive position on my knees without yanking on the edges of the wound.

"Yeah, but we fixed that. Right?" Her brow furrows, and I can't tell whether she's angry at me or concerned.

"We wrapped it up. That doesn't mean it has to stop bleeding."

"But it did stop bleeding." Her tone is matter-of-fact.

"No," I sigh. "It didn't."

"Well, sitting in the sand's not going to help. Get up. Don't we have any more bandages or something?"

"I can't get up," I exhale, derailing her again. "And no, we used them all."

She looks at me, pushing her hair back again in frustration. I recognize the tension strung along her hand and I unconsciously want to push my hair back as well.

"It's that bad? What are we going to do? You can't just sit there. That cannon means someone else is dead. We can't be waiting around for that to be us."

I can tell she doesn't believe me; like I'm making all this up. I almost feel the same way. There's no way a little knife blade can keep me this debilitated.

"Fine," I grunt, using my hands to push off from the ground and stand, just like I would any other time. I almost make it before the pain kicks in again and I sway in place, clutching my side. I straighten, wincing, and attempt to forget about the pain of my side stretching.

"Ok," Roe grumbles. "I get it. Sit down. You don't need to make that face."

I hadn't realized I was making a face, but I ease myself back down to the sand anyway. I feel pathetic, useless, and it hasn't even sunk in that I might be stuck like this long enough for that last Career to come around and hack me into pieces.

_It'll be ok, _Day tries desperately, clutching at straws. _He won't come here – we'd see him coming a mile away! There's nowhere to hide._

_Yeah. I know. That's the problem. _I imagine the Career bursting over the sand dunes, finding us as easy pickings. Nowhere to hide. And now, no way to run. This shuts her up, and I feel bad for scaring her. It's the truth, though, and hiding it from her isn't going to change the facts.

That damn Career has control over everything now.

"He's hunting, Roe."

"Who?" She shoots me a doubtful look, but the word "hunting" has her biting her bottom lip.

"The last Career. He's on his own, but that doesn't mean he has to stop operating like a Career. Think about it – he has no competition now. He's not going to wait around for the rest of us to die off. He's going to put on a show."

"He could be anywhere," she says quietly.

"Yeah." My word hangs in the air. What resistance would the two of us make? I can't move, and Roe's no Career. He'd be able to take us out any way he liked. I can feel Day's fear growing in the back of my head, but I can't censor everything for her. I realize with a pang that I'm already failing my promise to her, to get her out of here any way I can. I told her that I'd help her, but so far all she's gotten is a knife to the side and my raging paranoia.

_You don't owe me anything, _Day whispers, but I can still the hope stretched tenuously between us, tethering us together despite everything that has happened. She wants so badly to get out of here, and I'm her only chance. I try not to think about how I might not be able to give her that.

"What are we supposed to do?" Roe mutters to herself, beginning to pace. I feel restless just watching her, and wishing that I could get up as well. I feel claustrophobic, even sitting in the middle of this wide desert. If that Career decided to hunt on our platform next, I'd only be able to watch as he killed both of us. And Day, on top of everything. I wouldn't able to defend her, either.

That's what makes these Games so difficult. On an average year, it isn't hard to disband an alliance. Even though I can't see myself abandoning Roe at this point, I could do it. When an alliance is no longer feasible, it's acceptable to break it off. But I can't break off the alliance with Day. There's nowhere for her to go. So when I die, I'll be listening to her screams, too.

_You could win, _Day insists, and I feel bad for thinking about any of this when she's so present. _Not for me. For you. _

There's always Coral's knife, still packaged neatly in our last remaining bag. But that won't do me any good, not when I'm grounded like this. There's no way for me to win, especially not with a Career steadily tracking the last tributes down and an ongoing alliance. Roe and I shouldn't be together at all at this stage in the Games. We should have separated at the final eight. Now, if by some miracle we were the last two, she would easily finish me off and that would be the end of it.

Not because I don't trust Roe, but because I'm paranoid, I reach gingerly for our bag and draw the knife out. It's no different, with the same rusty stains that make me wonder how many people Coral killed as a Career before making this alliance.

"It's no good to have this wrapped up," I mutter, edging it into one of the clumsy loops on my belt.

Roe stares at me. "Right," she eventually says. "That's good."

After about an hour or so of pacing, she sits down with me and our stomachs complain together, reminding me that without Coral, we're out of supplies. All that's left is water in the bottoms of the near-empty jugs, and the last of the dry bread. We finally devour the rest of that, but it's not enough. If these Games don't hurry up, we're going to be dead before the Career finds us.

Roe lapses into thought, silence hanging over us. I can see that she's concentrating, with her eyebrows scrunched low and her lip periodically caught between her teeth. For all her bluster, she's so easy to read. Every emotion is clear on her features, even when it's usually warped by annoyance. I almost want to interrupt, just so that I can watch her intense concentration evaporate into normal Roe – the uncertain, lip-biting, angry one. Her emotions are so colorful that they seem out of place on a person like her. Not that's she's strange by herself, but after watching her eyebrows scrunch into one position for so long, it surprises me every time that her face displays anything but various shades of anger.

And then I don't know what to do with myself. I'm still bleeding, I'm starving, and I know that we're undergoing the final countdown of the Hunger Games now. There will be no more support. No more gifts from the Gamemakers. This is the part where the longest lasting tribute wins, and I assume that in a matter of a day or two, the Capitol will have their victor.

If only the Hunger Games were that simple. For most tributes, by now, it usually is. In the final six, tributes are supposed to be tired and hungry and injured, but they're not supposed to still be in an alliance. I assume that Roe and I are the only alliance left in the arena now, and that complicates things so much that I don't even know what to do about it. We can't both win. But we're both still here.

And most tributes don't have a young girl in their heads, depending on them for survival. It's getting too hard to sort through the muddled conditions in these Games, even though I know that if I don't get my act together, Roe, Day, and I will all end up dying gruesome deaths as I sit here. But I still can't even move, and I don't know what I'd do even if I could.

I don't know exactly what to think about the final six. 18 other tributes are in boxes now, and I'm not, so that's a good thing. I don't know if I'm just putting off the inevitable, but it's better than being dead right now. And the final six is nothing to laugh at. I won't be remembered, but at least I didn't die first. But right now, with Day to consider and Roe still a part of the alliance, I don't want to think about how this is going to end. It's going to be dirty, and people are going to die, and that damned Career is going to win.

"Ugh," I sigh without meaning to, trying to gingerly ease myself back into a sand bank. Roe flips hair out of her eyes and twists to shoot me a glare, as if that noise was enough to break her concentration entirely. It's so typical that I feel like everything's normal and ok, but I don't think it ever will be again. It's too late. We can't move backwards, to when we could pretend we weren't in the arena.

"I'm thinking," Roe says flatly. "Stop making those noises."

"I sighed," I point out. "Once." She just groans in response and runs her hands through her hair, which is now tangled and stringy.

"Never mind. I give up." She flops back next to me and adopts such a stormy expression that I don't ask what she's giving up on. I doubt it's along the same lines I'm thinking – that the Hunger Games themselves are a lost cause. The more I think about it, the less feasible my survival gets. I feel like time is already winding down, ticking incessantly in my head. It makes me feel claustrophobic, like I should run away, but that's impossible here.

"The sand's warm," Roe mutters to herself, but the only thing I can think of is how cold this sand's going to be tonight, when the Capitol anthem is playing and they hit us with another blast of frigid air.

Colder even than prison, I suppose. I sneak a glance at Roe, thinking about what she told me last night. It seems too horrific to believe that she was shipped here straight from the dark hole that she'd been living in since she was twelve. The Capitol only wants her here because they're using her.

It hits me then, hard, and I'm stunned momentarily by the awful simplicity of it.

The Capitol doesn't want her. They don't want her to live. And they'd never let her win.

They can't let Roe be the last one standing, because how would they explain that? The Capitol would be hungering for her, for her family and her backstory and national appearances, and someone would connect the dots between the different images – the reaping of the girl from District 10, now dead, and the replacement from the Capitol's hellhole. Someone would notice that she wasn't the same person. Questions would come up, and the Capitol couldn't let that happen. The Games aren't supposed to be flawed.

Now I'm staring at her, trying to imagine her dead, and I can't. The Capitol can't kill her. The same way I never thought Coral could die, I can't see Roe as a corpse. I don't think Roe would ever let that happen.

And yet Coral's cannon rang out just a few days ago. I've already been proven wrong once.

"What?" Roe squints at me. "Spit it out, idiot, if you want something."

"Uh…" I can't explain to her what I'm really thinking, so I scramble for a valid excuse. "I have a story for you." I didn't mean to advertise a story, because I don't really have one. But Roe's story is turning over in my head, so the word leaps out on its own.

"Ok. Go." She turns her head a little to one side, like she's finally interested in something I have to say.

Day stirs, listening closely for whatever story I have to tell, and she reminds me that I still have something that I never told Roe. I don't think the Gamemakers could make this story out as anything rebellious or dangerous, so I figure it's safe to tell Roe, despite my paranoia concerning any stories at the moment.

"The Quell theme. The voices in our heads." I look at her hard, warning her to play along. She can't blurt out anything about how she doesn't have a voice; not now, when the Capitol is surely training every camera on us.

"I never told you about mine."

Day's voice is confused. _What? What is there to tell?_

"Her name's Day. She's twelve." I pause awkwardly as Roe looks back at me. She nods slowly, and I can tell she doesn't really know where this story's going.

"She was in the 29th Hunger Games."

Roe blinks hard. "That was over a hundred years ago. Why her?"

"I…I don't know why they picked her." My words feel a little dangerous. 'They' sounds too much like 'them' versus 'us.'

"But anyway, she talks to me sometimes…and she's a really nice person." And then I know where I'm going with this, and it's not just for Roe. I'm sick of Day being bottled up in my head all the time – no one else in the world knows she's in here with me, living and talking and laughing. And she doesn't deserve that. Right now, she has no one except me. No one knows she exists. But they have to know, because Day can't just live for a week and then disappear again without anyone ever knowing she was here.

"I know that these voices are supposed to be a punishment, but she's not. She's genuinely kind and strong, and she's just a kid." I feel like I'm speaking to the cameras now, and my speech feels cheesy, but it's the truth. I don't know how else to describe Day.

"I just wanted people to know about her." The speech dissolves and disappears, but I think I've said enough. Now, at least, when people think back on the 6th Quarter Quell and the final six, or the final four, or the final two or however far I make it, it won't just be Arden, District 7. Maybe people will remember the name Day, too.

Roe blinks at me, and I think she's going to ridicule me, tell me I'm being stupid. But she just stares at me for a minute and says, "I think I understand."

And then Day whispers, _Thank you._


	27. Chapter 27

**We're close to the end – thanks for sticking with it.**

I'm beginning to drift, blinking heavily against the sunlight above me. I've found an easy position to lean back in and not stress my wound, with my eyes fixed on the sky. After Coral's haircut I don't have much hair left to shield me from the sun, and I feel exposed.

The desert platform fluctuates, warm at day but frigid at night, and I wonder if that's designed to lull us into a false sense of security before the freeze hits. Try as I might to stay paranoid, I feel too sleepy and comfortable under the sun, and tonight I know I'll be too cold to sleep.

I can hear Roe shifting in place, scratching around in the sand, and after a few long moments I'm just curious enough to crane my neck to find out what she's doing.

She wears a frustrated expression, a classic pose of irritation. Her eyes wander, though, lost in thought, and she's turning sand over in her hands. She's not paying attention as I watch her nose wrinkle and the breath huff from her lips.

She's making a mountain from the sand, smoothing it absently as she thinks. As the sand slides down between her fingers, her eyes snap back into focus and she draws her hand back. "The sand's too dry," she mutters, and glances away from the sand to me. She abruptly looks back, and then, as if seized by the idea, smashes her arm violently into the side of the sand. It shatters in midair before falling limply back to earth, hardly disturbed.

It reminds me too closely of any other act of violence in the Hunger Games, and I try not to imagine a tribute swinging a knife at someone in the same way.

"It's a sand castle," Roe sighs. "Sort of. It was."

"Frustrated?" My voice comes out lighter than I expected.

She looks at me darkly, so I quickly flip the subject. "What's a sand castle?"

"Coral told me about it." She flies over Coral's name, as if that would make us forget. "Some District 4 thing. They do it down by the ocean. They have sand like this, you know. Coral said it wasn't quite the same, but that it should work the same way." She shrugs and looks down at her scattered sand pile.

"Ok, so what do you do?" I feel like I need to keep her talking, and not because I'm fascinated by the concept of a sand castle when I have bigger problems, like the blood leaking from my side.

She looks at me, one eyebrow raised. "I don't really know. It's like this, I think."

Roe scoops up some more sand and dumps it back down again in a lopsided pile that looks nothing like any castle I've imagined. I appraise it with squinted eyes, and Roe catches my disapproving look. "It's not done yet," she snaps, robotically smoothing the sides of the sand castle until it's a slightly smoother version of the mound.

"So what makes it a castle?" I ask, my voice thick with suppressed amusement.

"Windows," Roe declares, poking her finger twice into the upper half of the sand, "and a door." She draws a half circle on the face of the castle with one scraggly nail and whips around to look at me, challenging.

"I can do better," I assert confidently. "Move over." Roe obediently scoots to the side, smirking at me.

"Good luck," she scoffs, and I pointedly ignore her.

I gather up sand right next to the remains of her sand castle, imagining elaborate arches and towers, but as soon as I touch the sand I feel clumsy, and I'm left to ease up a mound of sand very similar to hers. It looks awful, but I still half-heartedly carve a door and some windows into the sand and rock back on my heels so she can see. That hurts, so I ease myself back into a sitting position.

Roe bursts out laughing as the top half of my castle crumbles and rattles back to earth, leaving a squat, broken top for my castle. I wince as I take a second look at my lopsided heap of sand and the uneven holes that I've scrawled on it.

"You are so awful at this," Roe smirks. "Mine was better." She swats my hand away and knocks my castle down. "According to Coral, It's because you need water. She said the sand here was too hot and dry. I guess ocean sand is different."

"We have no water left to use," I say quietly, and her eyes sober. I almost regret it, because when Roe's not angry it's a rare thing. Her face crashes, returning to frustration and fatigue.

"We need to find some." She's all business, but there's a note of desperation in her tone. "Where can we get some?"

I'm in mid shrug, helpless with the wound still pulsing in my side, when Roe interrupts. "We need it. Or we'll die." Her voice is flat and heavy with the tension that both of us feel. "We'll be dead in a day or two."

"What do you want me to do?" I feel tired just thinking about the work it takes in the Hunger Games to stay alive. I can't cross to another platform, even if that's the only way to get water. Not like this. I'll die here first, with water just out of reach.

"We should have stayed at the oasis," Roe mutters bitterly. I can tell what she's thinking: then Coral wouldn't be dead. But that doesn't change the fact that there'd still be no water. The Gamemakers drained the oasis for a reason.

"I can't even move. We can't go back." She glares at me and I retreat, thinking hollowly that I might not be able to, but she could. She could take our last pair of handcuffs, with or without my consent, and break the alliance. And have water.

Roe doesn't look like she's following my train of thought, though, as she gets to her feet and starts pacing again, kicking up sand as she goes. She just looks frustrated, cheeks hollowed out and smeared with dirt and someone else's blood. She's the picture of what the Hunger Games does to people, desperation in every new line on her face.

"I can fix this," she promises no one in particular, but I doubt that pacing a circle in the sand will get us water.

I go back to drifting, smoothing over the scattered pieces of my sand castle with my feet and leaning back against my makeshift sand dune. I feel suffocated by my inability to get up and move around, but every time I try to do something productive the pain stops me again. I feel like I should be able to do better, grit my teeth and bear it, but even when I can ignore the pain the wound continues to split, threatening me with more and more loose blood.

"Get back!" Roe hisses. "There's a trap!" Her voice is high and insistent, alarmed enough that my eyes spring open and I scramble awkwardly to my knees. Roe snatches at my shoulder and tries to yank me backwards, but I'm too heavy and she abandons me, spitting out incoherent warnings.

I whip back around to see that Roe is a stick figure behind me, limbs bent and protruding as she tries to fold herself as defensively as possible. "Move, idiot!"

"Help me, then!" I snarl back, finally snapping from the pressure of the helplessness and claustrophobia tying me down. I still don't know what the threat is, or where it's coming from, and paranoia is racing in my blood.

"It's right in front of you. Scoot backwards."

I hold my breath, scanning the sand for some evidence of the trap as I edge backwards. There's a silver glint protruding from waves of mussed sand, and my mind races trying to come up with an explanation. A steel wire trap to catch our feet in? Some kind of weapon?

"It's not doing anything," I say in a rush of air as I finally exhale, coming to a halt next to Roe.

"I know, but that doesn't mean we should touch it!" She hisses back. "It's dangerous."

"Yeah, but what is it?"

"I'm not going anywhere near that thing," Roe shoots back, shaking her head.

"I can't exactly go check myself. Just get close enough to look at it. What if it's something useful?"

Roe looks angry at my challenge, but she does it anyway, creeping closer and making me wonder whether this is stupid. What's the likelihood that the Gamemakers planted something good for us? It could get her killed.

"Hey," I start, rethinking it, "Maybe you shouldn't-"

"It's a parachute!" Now Roe's voice is pitched high with excitement. She yanks it up out of the sand before I can warn her and tears the bag open.

"What's in it?" Now I'm eager as well, and I can't help leaning towards her to check and precariously shuffling forward.

"Paper?" Her voice falls flat, and I struggle to get a look.

It's a bunch of old paper, some with newsprint, that looks entirely useless until I see the match nestled inside of the heap.

"It's stuff to start a fire," I explain, picking up the match. "See?"

"How long would that even last?" Roe asks doubtfully, rubbing a piece of the paper between her fingers.

"A few seconds," I admit. "And we already have matches."

"So it's useless," Roe confirms, and I nod. She throws her hands up. "I thought it would be water."

"We don't need it that badly yet," I reassure her. My tongue's dry, but I know what dehydration's going to be like, and it's not that bad yet.

It's not enough to satisfy her, and Roe crosses her arms across her chest and adopts a determined expression. "There might be more out there. Hidden under the sand. Maybe they were planted like that for a reason. Maybe tributes are supposed to find these."

"And there might be actual traps," I remind her, imagining a misstep and an explosion triggered by something underground. Now more than ever, I feel suspicious of the ground under my feet, like it could fall away at any second.

"How could they bury this stuff, Roe? We're on a platform, remember. It can't be that thick. You could dig right through." I don't know if that's possible, but again I feel like the sand is going to dump me into thin air. How is this sand even hovering here? I suppose there must be something solid underneath the sand, holding it up.

"I don't care," she decides, shaking her head decisively. "I'm not dying because we're out of water."

She sets off across the sand, straying and kicking sprays of powder into the air. I can't relax now, not when she's rooting around in the sand just begging for a trap to get her. I follow her movements as she skitters across the sand, occasionally stopping to dig for a minute before getting up and moving on.

"There's got to be more," she announces to herself after a few minutes of searching, and scoops up more from the sand. "Why else would there by one buried here?"

"You're going to dig through the platform, Roe," I say warily, but she ignores me. I don't know why she would pick falling to her death over starving or running out of water, but she seems determined to fall right through the platform. She must be accustomed to a little bit of discomfort after being in prison for so long, but apparently being in the arena has made her recognize the value of water.

She digs steadily, eyebrows lowered and teeth clenched, until I have to give up and leave her alone. I can't get her to see reason, so I just have to hope she finds something.

I've fallen asleep by the time Roe whacks me on the back of the head with something soft and pliable.

"Ow," I mumble, rubbing my eyes and shaking sand out of y hair. "Why did you do that?"

"Cherries, you idiot, I got cherries!" She dangles a familiar silver parachute in front of my eyes and tugs on the bag until it gives way, spilling a dozen of them onto the sand. "And they have juice. Do you get it? We're going to make it!"

"I didn't think we were in that much danger," I grumble. I hate to be wrong, but as she tosses one of the cherries at me, I have to admit that I'm relieved. She bites into one of hers delicately and tries sucking on it, then just pops it into her mouth.

"Mmm," she sighs. "They're wet."

"How are you that thirsty?" I ask after swallowing mine. My mouth is dry, sure, but we had water not too long ago.

"Shut up and eat," she shoots back, so I obediently take half of the cherries.

"Finder's fee," Roe declares, snatching one of my cherries and swallowing it before I can protest.

"Thanks," I grouch, finishing mine off.

"Shut up," she says half-heartedly, and a second after her eyes light up animatedly. "Just think what else could be under the sand! I bet you no one else took these because no one thought there was anything good in a desert. I bet no other tributes even tried to camp over here. It's so barren, no one would think to look under the surface!"

"Yeah. Like more traps. There could be more traps," I remind her, but it's a losing battle.

"I can pace and find stuff at the same time." Roe grins and sets off again, animated by the chance of finding something else. "They put these here for a reason!" I just shake my head and wonder how quickly I could get back to napping. I feel like I'm inviting danger by just laying here under the sun, but even if I was completely alert and defensive, if another tribute found us it wouldn't make a difference. Asleep or not, I wouldn't be able to fight back. Still, I reposition Coral's knife at my side before trying to go back to sleep.

It doesn't work. The sun is sinking in the sky, giving way to my sixth night in the arena, but I still can't sleep. I'm too tense now, thinking about time and how I'm running out of it. Even the air is tight with anxiety, and Roe is no longer smiling at the prospect of finding more parachutes. In fact, she's just a blur in the distance, ranging further and further as she looks for more supplies. She isn't moving anymore, just sitting in the sand. I don't know if she has given up.

She bolts upright, but I can't see her face, so I don't know if it's fear that has her running. She's dashing towards me, floundering in the sand, like she's being chased. I don't see a tribute behind her, but I can't be sure at this distance.

My heart pounds as I imagine what could have her running like this. Is she hurt? Is the platform crumbling behind her, only steps away from dragging her down? I get on my knees, and then my feet, ignoring the pain and gripping Coral's knife until the hilt slips and the base of the blade nicks my fingers.

"Shit," I swear as violently as I can, but it's only a tiny cut and not worth cleaning. My eyes are glued to Roe as she sprints, and now her features are coming into view as she comes closer. She looks determined, not scared, but that doesn't make my heart beat any slower.

She slides to a stop next to me, grabbing my arm and spinning me towards her.

"Ow, what, ow!" She's panting. "What happened?" I demand, trying to catch my balance. My head spins and her fingers clench tighter on my arm.

She drags in a long breath and stands on her toes, shooting me an intense look as if she's trying to convey something. Then she drags me down to her level and almost touches my ear with her lips as she struggles to catch her breath and moves closer, her body an inch away from mine.

Her voice is a whisper, but it sounds like a shout in the silence of the arena as her heart pounds in my ears. "I know how we can both get out of the arena."


	28. Chapter 28

**Welcome to chapter 28 and over 70,000 words of Hearing Things! We're getting close now. If you read anything at all that you like in this chapter, or anything you don't, please drop me a review. :)**

Roe hovers in place, still breathing hard in my ear, as silence overtakes the arena again.

"_What_?" I splutter hoarsely. Her announcement is still ringing in my ears, too loud against the backdrop of the arena. _I know how we can both get out of the arena._

"How…Roe, that's…" I feel as short of breath now as she does as I fight for words.

Roe digs her fingernails into my arm and leans closer into me. "Shut up, you idiot!" She hisses, deadly quiet. "Stop talking." She holds her breath, trying to slow her breathing.

Roe thinks we can both get out of the arena. I want to tell her that's impossible. 23 dead bodies. No exceptions.

"Roe-" I try again, softly, and her fingernails cut into my arm.

That can't happen. The Capitol only spares one of us. Roe can't just bend the rules.

But she already knows that. Roe leans back, dropping back to her normal height, and watches me carefully. Analyzing me. Making sure I don't say anything stupid. There's something dangerous sparking in her eyes, and the full implications of what she said hit me.

This is the same thing that sparked the Dark Days. Rebellion. Something like this destroyed an entire District and started the Hunger Games. Anything that the Capitol doesn't approve of is rebellion. And that is what Roe is suggesting.

Now Roe's breathless whisper seems too loud, even though the air has long since quieted. Now the cameras around us are heavy, blinking and staring. Nothing will escape them, not even a whisper. Roe has landed herself squarely in the camera's eye.

But that doesn't stop the racing pulse in my throat, or the hope that I can keep my heart beating for longer than I'm supposed to. I know it's dangerous, and that it would never work, but the offer is too tempting to ignore. Suppose it worked. Suppose I had a shot at getting out of here intact. I shake Roe off of my arm and clench my hands together, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. We just breathe for a moment, thinking about cameras and rebellion.

"Roe," I begin deliberately, thinking through every word and structuring them carefully, "you need to…explain."

There. If they didn't hear her earlier, then they won't know what I'm talking about. But I have to know now. It's too late. I've already snatched up the hope, whether it's dangerous or not.

Her eyes tighten, and the blood rushes in my ears. _Careful, _I think. _Careful. _Everything has to be careful now.

She glances upwards for a second, swallowing hard, and I catch sight of the thin clouds that are sluggish in the sky above us, silhouettes against the setting sun. She's thinking. I can see her thinking, with her lip caught between her front teeth.

"You don't mind, do you?" She starts slowly. She sounds strained, formal. "Sorry to unload on you." Her tone loosens, sounding sheepish, but I can still see the tense lines around her eyes. "I just hadn't talked to anyone about my…personal life…in a while. It's kind of a secret, but I had to get it off my chest. You'll keep it a secret, right?" She smiles tightly, acting embarrassed.

I feel completely lost. What is she talking about? She's not making sense any more, and all I want to hear about is her plan. We weren't talking about her personal life. We're talking about her life, yes, but mine as well, and how she plans on sustaining both of them.

"What?" I'm bewildered, searching Roe's eyes for a clue. Panic seizes her and her eyes widen, begging me not to say anything.

"Uh…yeah, that's ok. I'm, er, here to listen." I feel out of breath, like I've just been hit in the stomach. We can't talk here. She had to cover it up, and I almost blew it. For all the Capitol viewers know, she was whispering something personal to me about her life before the Hunger Games. That's safe. That wouldn't be rebellion.

Roe nods, relieved, and wraps her arms defensively around her chest. "Thanks. I promise I'll…hey, if I ever need someone to talk to again, you'll be here, right?"

I'm confused again, dense and slow witted against Roe's quick planning. Then I get it. She's promising that she'll explain later, in the only way she can without the cameras catching on. "Yeah, sure. That's what alliances are for." I sound wooden and stiff, completely fake, but maybe those stupid Capitol people will buy it. Maybe they won't think that I'm clinging to the hope that Roe knows how to get us out of here alive.

Roe stares at me, uncertain, before nodding once and wringing her hands together. "Ok. Thanks again." She smiles nervously and turns her back on me, and I feel like I'm losing her. I watch her back, uncertain, as she moves away and takes up a spot a few yards away. I get a sneak glance at her profile and she looks miserable, taut and stressed and on the verge of giving up. But Roe's too strong for that, so she'll hold it all inside and I'll wait for her until she breaks again. I don't know what she's thinking, but I know it has something to do with this escape plan, and it's weighing her down. I can see it in every crease staining her eyes.

And I have nothing to do but think about the same thing. I don't know why Roe would suggest something like this, a chance like this, and then leave me hanging. I guess she has no way of explaining right now, but I have the awful feeling that she's never going to get the chance. With the cameras and the Career all closing in, how is she supposed to make this happen?

Not to mention how impossible this is. I don't know what exactly this arena is made of, or how it works, but I know there's nowhere to go except for off the edge. Escape can't be an option, right? Where would we possibly go? And I can't think of any other way but escape for two people to live. Any other plan is sure to be harebrained and deadly, just what we need to get ourselves killed.

And why even bring me along? If Roe doesn't think she can win in the traditional way, then she's free to try escaping. But I have no part in this. If she really knows how to get out, why include me? I don't think it's friendship or loyalty, despite our alliance. I feel a sneaking suspicion that I might be used, but just looking at Roe makes me think otherwise. I don't think she has it all figured out yet, and I don't think she has any evil plans of throwing me under the bus to save herself.

It's infuriating to wait and confuse myself further. I wish I could get up and join Roe, but the thought of standing turns my stomach. I could just yell to her, but the tense silence that has settled over us convinces me not to. I rake short, stray hairs back, thinking that Coral's haircut missed a few pieces, and the cannon goes off.

Roe jerks in place, back stiffening. I feel sick, pulse loud in my ears, and lurch painfully to my feet. "Roe?" I choke out, imagining a knife in her stomach or some other gruesome wound. I move toward her, reaching for her shoulder, and she whips around to face me.

She looks alarmed, pink discoloring her cheeks, but not dead. She's still breathing. The cannon wasn't for her.

I don't know why I thought it was for her. She looks as alive as anyone else, so I don't know why I heard death whispering in my ears. It must have been the way she jerked when the cannon went off.

"Another one," Roe whispers, and I drop my hand.

"I know," I answer back hoarsely. I don't know whether or not that's a good thing. Someone's dead, which is not really _good, _but it means one less competitor. The odds just got better. But it also means that the Career is still actively hunting, and there are less people standing between him and us. The Hunger Games are coming to a close, faster than I think I want them to.

"Arden?" Roe's voice is small. "We're in the final four."

The number makes blood rush in my ears. How could that have happened? It's too small for me to be excited, small enough that it spells death instead of victory. My chances of beating this Career are nothing. This number means less time. My breaths are numbered.

_You can beat him! _Day pipes up, but she sounds scared more than anything. _I know you can. _Day surges back at full volume, returning from whatever hibernation she seems to slip into when things get dull. Maybe it takes too much energy for her to hang around all the time, but I'm guiltily glad she's here for this. It's not like she should be reassuring me, but it feels like she is, and it helps.

"That's a 25 percent chance." Roe smiles, but it's a tiny, sad smile.

All I need is 75 percent. And Roe dead. It's so screwed up that even Day can't find the hope in it. She's diminished now, quiet and sobered in the back of my head. Roe has to die for the sake of my survival.

I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing, and it's so wrong after everything that has happened to us, but the words start spilling out of my mouth.

"Roe, our alliance…you know it won't work now." She watches me steadily as the words pour out, out of my control. "Not in the final four. We should have ended this when we hit the final eight." But even as I'm saying this, I don't want the alliance to end.

"I don't know what to do about the supplies…we don't have many, but we can divide them up somehow, but we can't…we can't just keep it like this." I wince. I can see how unfeasible this is, because I can't move and I'd have to kick her off of this platform to separate the alliance. And there's only one knife.

"Arden-" Roe breaks in, and I rush to interrupt.

"We're going to have to kill each other if we don't." Maybe that's what she'll do. Take the knife and kill me; end the alliance that way. It wouldn't be hard.

"Shut up, Arden," Roe responds. "Just shush already." Her mouth is opened to go again, but I keep talking.

"There's him, and there's another tribute and then there's us!" My shout is too loud, too angry, when I really don't mean what I'm saying. This kind of alliance is too good to give up. But I don't want to kill her, and that's what I'll end up doing if this goes wrong.

I can feel the muscles in my neck tense as she stares back. "I've got it worked out, ok?" Her gaze is intense, prompting me to sit down and shut up, but I can't let it go. She can't be here when the end comes. We can't be an alliance then. I'm sure the Capitol would love seeing us try to hack each other to bits, but I can't let that happen. Maybe I'm killing both of us by separating now, while the Career is hunting, but I can't see another way around it.

"You idiot," Roe mutters, and bends to scoop some sand and chuck it at me. "Play with this and shut up, ok?" She smiles tiredly, like it's a joke, but the firm line to her mouth makes it clear that we're still fighting for our lives here.

"Roe, you can't do that," I spit back, sand gritty between my teeth.

"I've got it, alright?" I know what she's talking about. Getting us both out of the arena. Her escape plan. But something like that would never work. I feel claustrophobic, pressed in by the time that's running out. If we don't do something fast, at the rate people are dying, we'll be left to kill each other. It's making me desperate, and maybe a little illogical, but I don't want to kill her so much that I'm willing to tear the alliance down like this. And maybe it goes without saying, but I don't want her to kill me. Not just because I don't want to be dead. It feels wrong. Too messy. I don't want the alliance, or the Hunger Games, to end like that. Whatever it comes to, I will be fighting back. And I don't want it to be her I fight against.

"Come get me if you want to discuss this further, ok?" She shakes her head and moves away again, her back to me, to bite her lip again and think some more.

And I'm almost glad that the subject is dropped so easily. I'm desperate to fix this before it's too late, but it's so easy to slip back into our old roles. It's so easy to be an alliance, not trying to kill each other or leave each other behind. Just trying to survive.

The sun's going down around us, and I feel like I'm drowning in the pastel arena light. Everything's spinning out of control, but I just don't know what to do anymore. The arena has frayed me, and for once I don't know what to do. It's not as simple as get up, breathe, keep walking. In District 7, that's all we know how to do. Priorities are simple. In the arena, it should be the same way. Just survive. But the Gamemakers make sure that that's not the end of it. That's why the Capitol audiences eat it up, because this is a game for people, not for assassins. We can't help but pick up emotional ties along the way.

I drag our one bag closer and fiddle with the thin straps, wrapping them around my fingers. That's all there is to do now, sit and wait and hope that it all turns out ok. I want action, to be prepared for whatever onslaught the Gamemakers come up with next, but even trying to end the alliance with Roe has proven futile. I feel useless and angry, bottled up inside, but I can't even do anything about that.

And then she screams.

The first scream sounds surprised, like a yelp more than anything. But the second one is my name.

A cannon is pounding over and over again in my ears as I whip around to face Roe, or what's left of her that I can see. Her torso protrudes from the sand, and she's struggling and clawing her way upwards, clutching fistfuls of sand that runs ceaselessly through her hands. Something under the sand is sucking her under, pulling her down so that now only her shoulders and neck are above the sand.

"Arden!" She screams, thrashing desperately against the sand, sheer will and terror driving her upwards, but only by inches. The sand is clutching at her, suffocating her, as her wild, terrified gasps ring out in the too-quiet arena. The arena is listening to her die, biding its time and waiting for the world to fall silent again.

"Roe!" I cry hoarsely and stagger to my feet, ignoring the pain and careening toward her. Only a few steps. Her hands are in the air now, grasping the sky as if it could hold her up and she screams and her breaths become hiccups.

And then one foot slips, my side wrenches, and I'm falling, slamming into the sand as the world spins. I'm on eye level with her now as her head bobs desperately above the surface and she slips lower and lower. Her eyes find mine and there are tears streaming down her face, only feet away from me. She knows it's over, I can see it in her eyes, and I'm reaching for her across the sand but there's nothing for me to hold onto.

And it's too late, she's as good as gone already, but she still has to face the end and she's _so scared._

She slips.

She disappears.

And I'm left lying in the sand, still reaching for her hands. Still so close.


	29. Chapter 29

**Whew. This is a monster of a chapter, coming in at nearly four and a half thousand words. I hope this makes up for my slow updates of late. Thank you for all of your recent reviews, you guys, because they really keep me writing and it's good to know that people are still following it after all this time. :) Enjoy!**

There's sand in my mouth, in my eyes, between my fingers. I'm clutching at it like a life raft, winding my fingers into it as if I could make it solid. As if I could make it Roe instead, like I'd never missed her. Like I could pull her up out of the sand, back onto solid ground.

I clench my hands tighter, stopping the shaking and trying desperately not to hear what's coming. If I don't hear it, then it's not real. If I don't hear it, she's alive. If I don't hear it, everything's going to be ok.

Inevitable, the cannon booms.

And Roe's dead.

Sand slips through my fingers, and I look at my dusty hands. Rivulets of sand are sliding past me, toward where Roe disappeared. The sand there is disturbed, dipping down, and more streams of sand are trickling into the depression, racing to fill it. But she's not there anymore.

I crawl forward, getting my hands under me and spitting out more sand. One side of my face is already sore where I hit the ground, rubbed raw by the sting of the sand. My side protests at the movement, but I edge forward slowly and it's doable.

When I realize what the sand pit is, I can't initially believe it. There's a tiny hole in the platform, several yards beneath the surface. The platform is thicker than I thought it was, but the hole is still there, and I can see through it to the dizzying void below the platform. As I watch, the sand at the base of the pit stops trickling through and thickens to cover the hole. The sand starts slowly filling up the pit, and then it looks like nothing more than a natural curve on the surface of the platform, like Roe never fell through _right there._

A hole opened up underneath her and sucked her under the platform. Then she fell into the void, where she would have dissolved once she hit the invisible barrier. Dead that easily. This pit was nothing more than quicksand, and something that simple killed her. The pit doesn't even make sense in a platform like this. By all logic, if a hole was opened in a sand platform, all of the sand on the platform should have fallen through it, not formed another solid layer where the hole used to be. It's as if this quicksand was engineered in the same way the rest of the platforms were engineered to stay in the air.

The sand is awash with the gold from the sunset, definitely beautiful, but I'm sick just looking at it. I can't believe that Roe's gone. It was too fast, too quiet. It seems like she should come walking over one of the dunes any second, not that she really is completely out of reach. Not that's she's gone forever.

But her cannon fired, and that's the point of no return. The Hunger Games are not a place for second chances.

But I can't feel anything. I'm too shocked to figure out whether or not I'm sad that she's gone. I only knew her for a few days – though that's enough time in the arena for anything to happen. I feel guilty that I let her fall. I feel like something's missing without her constant, demanding presence. I feel lonely, maybe. I feel taken by surprise, like I've had all the air knocked out of me. But not sad. And I hate the arena for doing this to me.

"Sorry, Roe," I whisper hoarsely, dragging my hands back from the sand and propping myself up with my arms. It hurts, but I never stop hurting anymore. I realize that's the same way I feel about Roe – it hurts. It hurts for her to be gone.

And then Day is crying, or that's what it sounds like. _Yeah, it hurts, _Day whispers. _I can feel it. _She sniffles, sucking in bravely. _I would have liked to be friends with her._

_Me, too. _In another place. Not in this arena, where people are changed into monsters. But Day could never be friends with Roe. Not in this world, where she's locked inside my head. She can't even have that.

I'm so sick of this. Day shouldn't be here, trapped however she is in my head. She shouldn't have been in the 29th Hunger Games in the first place, nothing but bloodbath material that the hungry Capitol audiences probably didn't even notice. She didn't need to die.

And Roe doesn't need to be dead now, because of some damn quicksand. 19 other children don't need to be dead. Death doesn't need to be like this, everywhere in Panem, no better represented than right here in this arena. Our 23 casualties are the thousands of deaths across Panem over the year. The Hunger Games don't sate the Capitol bloodlust; it's the other little deaths, too; the rest of the people starving and shivering in their own private corners. And it's all at the Capitol's hands, extending their bloody fingers as far as we can run.

There are three people left in the Hunger Games, and the sixth day is almost up. The Hunger Games are over. I'm sure that by tomorrow there will be a victor, after just a week. I feel like the clock has finally run down, and now it's just waiting for the right timing. Tonight is full of promises, like that the Career won't wait. He'll track us down, whether it's me first or the other guy. And either I'll survive, or I won't. I try not to think about what that means, and it's strangely easy, like the shock from Roe's death still hasn't worn off. I'm not completely numb, but the impending danger is easy to brush off when I'm only sitting here, out of harm's way.

I dump out our bag - my bag - into the sand. There's nothing left, but it doesn't matter. I can be thirsty for a few more hours. Either way, after that, I'm out of here.

Roe's parachute full of paper was never that helpful, but I set the newsprint on fire anyway and watch it crackle as real darkness overtakes the arena. I stuff the empty water jugs into the bag and toss the rest of the matches in after them. The lone pair of handcuffs glint in the sand before I hide them away as well. Their partner is still on Coral somewhere far away from here. Or, probably they took them off of her. I don't know how that works.

There are a few empty packages that I load into the bag as well, and that's it. It's a bag full of shells – empty skins. I discard it in the sand, because it's useless to me now. I keep Coral's curved blade at my side, though, because this will come to a fight. Never mind the gouge in my side.

Then the sky is ablaze with the Capitol's symbol and song, and I don't want to look. But like every time before, I do anyway.

Today's first victim is the girl from District 5, a face I can't recall ever seeing during the Games, and I wonder how she lasted this long. District Five's an odd one to make it this far, and I think they'd celebrate this small victory.

The second face is pointy and altogether unremarkable; the boy from District 9 doesn't look like much of anything in his picture. But until this afternoon, he was a contender in the Hunger Games, so I guess that's something.

Then there's the picture for the third cannon today, and it's the Roe I know. This isn't Roe before the arena, like the pictures of the other tributes are. Her skin's dark after the sunlight of the arena, and she's wearing a trademark annoyed look. Her thin hair is wild around her face, and even though they've edited out the windswept sand dunes around her, I can feel them there. This is a hastily snapped picture from her time in the arena, and unlike all of these other pictures, she is alive, alive, _alive. _The arena has made her alive in this picture, given her vitality that none of us had before stepping into this arena, and killed her at the same time.

Of course, they couldn't use the picture they took of the District 11 tribute before the Hunger Games, because that girl isn't Roe. Because Roe replaced a girl and was never a part of the typical Capitol preparations, this arena picture is all that they had.

Now I'm sad, when I'm looking at her face in the sky. I'll never see her again. And I know that it wasn't just Coral that warped this alliance, making Roe a friend to her instead of just an ally. Our whole alliance was damned from the start, because Roe and I were friends, too. We were never just an alliance. For whatever reason, we leaned on each other. It was stupid and reckless, and this is what we've paid, but I don't really regret it. At least I wasn't alone.

The Capitol banner flashes, disappears, and the minutes tick on.

It's only about an hour later when the cannon rings out.

I have no doubt that that cannon is not for the Career. He's still on his feet out there, and he just killed the last barrier between himself and me. I don't have the ability to feel bad for whoever that is, because I am stone. It feels like the shock of Roe's death has hardened me, and I figure that, at least until he starts trying to kill me, I'm going to be calm about this.

_We're in the final two, _Day whispers, and there's terrible hope in her voice. I want so badly to get her out of here, but that Career is acting like a machine. It hasn't taken him that long to track down and kill every single remaining tribute, and I can hardly stand.

_Yeah. I guess I am. We are, _I tell her, and I think I can feel her smiling.

I unpack and repack the bag, but that doesn't help the waiting. Day makes small talk, thinking about her old home and sad things that somehow don't sound sad when she talks about them. She puts a happy spin on everything, and soon I know about her parents, her little brother, and her life before any of this. She doesn't think about how they'd all be dead by now. She doesn't tell me about the bad things that happened to her, either, but it seems like just knowing she had such a happy life before should make her sad. She's not sad, though, and it reminds me of why I like Day so much, even if she is technically an urchin piggy-backing in my brain. She laughs at that expression, and I smile when she laughs despite everything.

Then there's footsteps cresting the top of the closest sand dune, and he's there.

We stare at each other, my fingers clenching and unclenching on the handle of Coral's knife. There's sweat on my palm that I didn't know was there, and I realize that now my pulse is thudding in my ears. My heart is quietly racing, making up for lost time, and now there's fear, and I'm afraid. I desperately don't want to disappear. I don't want to lose myself here in the sand. I don't even want to be like Day, thoughts but no body. I like breathing too much. I like stretching my fingers and having the freedom to hit things, to run, to scream at somebody. To miss people. To feel hurt and sad about Roe. To protect Day, even though it's all wrong. To have an opinion, and to fight for it. To hate and love and all the emotions in between. Life is burning through me and I can't give that up.

"Well, are you gonna get up?" He asks casually.

"Working on it," I grunt back.

He's regarding me calmly, and I don't know what to think. He's not the same as the Career from before, who killed Coral with a manic smile and blood dripping down between his eyes. He doesn't have the effusive Career charm, the kind that makes people stand up and hoot and cheer. He's confident, but it's not the smoldering, obnoxious kind that Careers wear in their smiles.

He's not the rare Career that acts more like a District Three tribute, either. Those Careers are sly and cunning, oftentimes more cruel than their blundering, showy partners. They're dangerous, and they're the ones that win quietly. This Career doesn't look cunning or cold.

Just normal. He's watching me like anyone else might, not a trace of bloodlust in his eyes. Too normal, and it makes me warier than if he had blood dripping off of his hands. It's only the mace in his hands that marks him as a killer. It's a weapon I don't see that often in the Hunger Games, and for good reason. Just one of them can make for a quick game, and this one is bigger than most. The cruel spikes are colorful with dried blood, and he holds the mace easily, like it's an extension of his arm.

I grip Coral's knife tightly in my hand, hoping that some of her talent with it will rub off on me. The final two. Depending how long the two of us last, the Hunger Games could be over in an hour. I heave myself upwards, swaying in place until I can catch my balance. There's light sweat on my brow, and I know that I really am afraid. But I have to hold it together. I straighten painfully, raising the knife tentatively at my side and trying to look intimidating. It doesn't feel hard. It feels like the weight of the world is on me, and I'm tired, but I'm angry, and I'm ready to fight.

"There's something wrong with you?" He inquires, almost politely, and I don't trust him.

"Yeah," I answer shortly, between my teeth. He continues to watch me nonchalantly, and for some reason this makes me angrier. I'm fighting for my life here; how dare he act like it's nothing important? Like he won't even break a sweat. "What about you? Is there something wrong with your legs? You're taking an awful long time to get down here."

His eyebrows lift, but he shrugs. "Ok." Now he makes his way lightly down the dune, his mace easy at his side. I don't know what to do as I watch him coming for me so slowly, not aggressively. I take up as defensive a stance as possible, trying the blade in my hand. It feels clunky and wrong, too small. It's not like the axes back home, which flow when you lean your weight into the strike. This knife is short and too spiky, hard to control.

The night presses in around us, and the cameras strain against the clogged darkness to catch the final scene of the sixth Quarter Quell, but they won't see everything. Despite it all, this is our battlefield, not the Capitol's. I feel alone under the stark night.

"How do you want this to happen, District 7?" He asks, and the lack of malice in his tone is eerier than the fact that he knows who I am. I wouldn't have a clue what district he's from.

"That's easy," I answer as he draws closer, within arm's reach with his mace at his side. Then I leap at him as best I can, stumbling as my side tightens, and drive Coral's blade at his neck.

His fist smashing into my face catches me off guard and I stagger backwards, reeling for balance and moving to wipe fast blood from my crooked nose. Only my feet digging into the sand allows me to stay upright.

He moves too fast, and he's at me again, this time swinging the head of the mace at my shoulder. My heart is hammering and I smell blood as he closes in, and I push off of his body as he gets close enough to hit me. It's just enough to get myself away from his weapon, but the backwards motion nearly sends me crashing back to the sand. My side burns, fire leaping all the way up my side, and it's enough to make my head spin. Doubt prickles at the back of my neck, whispering that I can't win like this, but my body is out of my control now as survival takes over. Pain isn't an issue when death is so close. Until I lose my balance, I'll be able to keep fighting.

Survival is hot in my veins, and I understand why people say that near death experiences are when you feel most alive. I've never felt like this, heart racing and so close to being in the ground that I feel like I'm flying.

The Career backs up again, watching me as I struggle for my balance and my breaths come hard and fast. I'm burning, lit on fire by this fight. I'm alive, alive, _alive._

"That was lucky," the Career says, and his eyes are dead, and I realize that this is what makes him a Career.

I see red and his mace catches me in the stomach.

The spikes dig and twist in me, and I feel the vitality inside of me shatter. The force of the blow staggers me and it sends me flying backwards, but it's not flying so much as driving downward, into the sand that's as hard as stone.

I land crooked, arms underneath me, curled on my side, with my insides exposed to the increasingly cold air of the desert. I see flashes of the sky mixed in with the red; the night is black, not blue, and the moon is white.

Day has gone still and limp, and I am past the pain. There is no pain, just the sky and blood.

The Career stops, and everything is quiet. There's sand crusting my eyelashes, sand everywhere, and dark spots that I assume are mixed with my blood. I can't see him, but then he starts to talk again.

"You still with me?" He prods me with what I assume is his boot. I can see his dirty shoes then as he walks around to look into my eyes, but I can't see his face.

"Alright. I was worried for a minute."

He goes quiet again, and I wonder if I'm already dead.

_Day? _The action of thinking coherently is a struggle, because my thoughts are only of blood and holding on. I feel like I'm holding onto strings that are fraying in my hands, but I keep gripping them, because it's the only thing I know to do.

_Yeah? _Her voice is weak, rasping, and I know she's dying with me.

_What's it like? _I never wanted to ask her this question.

_What? _She questions, small and confused.

_Dying. _The word doesn't seem so blunt now that we're actively undergoing the process.

_Oh. _She's silent for a long second. _Dying or being dead? I don't really remember the dying part._

_Being dead._

She pauses, thinking. _Lonely. _Her voice is a whisper. _And dark. There's nothing there._ She sounds afraid now, trembling and fighting tears.

I would regret making her feel this way if I could still protect her, but I'm just quiet as she pushes on. _It's like being me now. There are no bodies, or anything like that. It's so dark it's scary, and there's no one else there with you. Nothing ever happens, but the darkness never gets better. It always seems like there's something in the shadows. It doesn't matter if you're brave. I tried being brave. But it puts the fear in you and you can't make it go away._

She takes a trembling breath. _I don't want to go back. _Then she's sobbing, and I hear death in between her tiny gasps.

_Hey, Day? _I say, and my heart is breaking. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't get you out like I said I would. I'm sorry you're stuck with me for this._

_It's ok, Arden. I can't feel anything._

Me neither, not anymore, but the reason for that is worse than the pain would be. It's because we're already half dead.

_Arden, if you were anyone but you, you wouldn't even care in the first place. _I swear I can feel a hint of a smile in her voice. _So thanks. For everything._

In that second I am closer to her than anyone else on the earth. We're the same person, no seams to separate her voice and my body.

_I'm scared, _she admits in a little voice, and I can't stand it.

_You said you were alone, right? _I feel a scrap of strength come back, and I'm determined to at least do this. _That doesn't matter to me. No one was looking for you before. I swear to you, Day, I'll come find you. You won't be alone. I won't leave you. _And I know I can find her. I won't let her do this alone. Not like before. She's so young – she doesn't deserve this.

_You know, Arden, I think I'll come find you. _It sounds like a joke; she's putting on a brave face. _I'll show you the ropes. I don't think you can handle it on your own ._It's definitely a joke – I can hear the teasing note behind her tone. Still able to put a positive spin on anything.

_It's a deal, _I think back, and it's a weak attempt, but I try to send her a smile and I think she gets it.

"Sorry that took so long." The Career's voice surges back into focus, and I'm almost disappointed that we're not dead already. It's so hard to want to fight when I can't even find the strength to move. At the return of his voice I feel weak life surge through me, desperate to put me back on my feet, but it's too late. At some point during all of this my eyes closed without my permission, and I can't even find my eyelids to open them.

There's a rustling noise and I remember that it's not over yet; that he still has tricks up his sleeve.

"Now, you must understand that I can't just kill you. You're my final rival. The last tribute to die." He pauses, as if to let that sink in. "So it can't be anticlimactic." He leans down to whisper in my ear, and I don't know if the cameras can hear this. "You're going to help me go down in history."

I think he straightens back up, because there's a rustling of his clothing and I can't feel his breath anymore.

"I found some matches in your bag. Not much else in there, eh? But they're enough. You see, I've been thinking long and hard about how my last kill was going to happen. It has to be creative, you know. There has to be a good show. And I had an idea, but no matches. So I'm going to use yours. I hope you don't mind if I borrow them."

Something sinks deep down in the pit of my stomach, and I wonder if my body is capable of feeling pain anymore.

"Are you cold?" He asks. "You have goosebumps." He nudges one of my arms with the toe of his boot again. "Don't worry, you won't be for long." I feel furious as the bottom of his shoe touches me, but there's nothing I can do. I feel like a play toy, completely at his mercy. Pride is an awful thing to have torn apart, and I hate him for destroying mine for all of Panem to see.

"There was some pepper spray at the Cornucopia. Not very useful, but I got it because no one else wanted it. I thought I could blind someone with it." He falls silent for a second, and I wish I knew what he was doing. "But then I got an idea. I only needed matches. And you have some.

"I don't know if you're familiar with this kind of spray, being from 7, but it's good for more than just spraying in someone's eyes. The stuff in this can is highly compressed, and there's a lot of propellant in there with the pepper spray so that it will eject properly from the can."

He pauses, and I can just imagine him playing it up for the audience. "That propellant is very flammable."

It hits me hard, and I feel sick.

"It's not that difficult to make some pyrotechnics with this." I can hear his boots scuffing across the sand as he moves. His voice is a whisper again, so low that I can barely catch it. "I will be the only victor to set a tribute _on fire._"

My stomach rolls, and I know that this is the end. I know that I will feel this. Fire is the worst way to die, my father told me after a particularly bad fire broke out at the mill and killed a few of his coworkers. I thought that drowning would be worse at the time, and I think we joked about teaching me how to swim, but now that I'm lying here at this maniac's mercy, I don't feel that way anymore. He wants to put on a show, and I'm sure he'll have one. What would the bloodthirsty Capitol love more than watching me burn alive?

My heart races frantically, pumping more blood out onto the sand. Blood fills my mouth, a leftover from the destruction the Career's mace wreaked on my insides, and I would throw it up if I had the strength to.

I am going to die.

"Thanks for the matches," he says, and I am soaring and falling and losing my way and the fear is overwhelming. There is no time to think about what I will miss, or what death means, or whether my life was worth it at all.

And now Day is most important, so I think, _hold onto me, _because I refuse to let her lose her way.

And then he sets me on fire.


	30. Chapter 30

**Here we go again, and here's another chapter. :) Not many more to come. Thanks to all of my amazing readers for caring about the story and inspiring me like you do!**

I'm dead.

At first it didn't feel like it – it still felt like breathing and thinking and being human. But then I realized that there's no pain anymore, there's no fire eating away at my vision, and I can't hear Day's horrific screams anymore.

And I'm relieved that it's over. No more burning. No more fighting. It's easy now, like breathing.

I want to fight back. Distantly, I feel claustrophobic and suffocated, like this is all wrong. But it's too easy for this to be right, and it's like there's a barrier between me and the things I used to care about. Like there are drugs coursing through my system, molding and slowing me into something else, and the thrill of living isn't as important anymore.

It doesn't feel like all of my questions have been answered. I'm staring death in the face, but all of my burning questions have disappeared. There's no satisfaction in finally knowing that this is it.

And there's not much to it. Every time I try to comprehend what I'm seeing, my head swirls, leaving me mildly confused all over again. All I can tell is that I don't really have anywhere to go or any way to go get there. It's dark, with a strange glow cast over everything, but I can't find any moon or stars. I'm not even sure that there's a sky. It feels more like a tunnel than anything, like I'm trapped.

Then there's the thickness in the air, like being under water. It feels like I'm in a dream - aware of what's happening in my surroundings, but I don't really see or feel myself. I looked for my hands for a little while, but I don't have much drive anymore and I gave up without a fight.

It's way too close to how Day described it.

The name sparks something, and I'm suddenly concerned.

Day.

I hear her screaming again, crying and begging the fire to stop. I can't remember her laughter. I know it's in there somewhere, but her death has tainted me. I feel haunted and guilty, and it's enough to make me do something about it.

"Day?"

My voice strains back, like through water. I feel utterly alone in this tunnel, so I don't know if she can hear me, or if she's even nearby. I try walking forward, and it feels like motion even without legs to speak of, but I can't seem to go anywhere.

_Day? _I think, and it hits me that she could still be trapped up in my head, even after all of this. I didn't think that that was how it would happen, but since she's not with me I don't know what else to think. I was holding onto her too tightly for her to have wound up alone.

Alarm spikes, dulled by whatever is blocking my emotions, and I reach for her in my head. _Day? Day! Can you hear me? _I can't feel her anywhere, not even in the back of my head where she used to go when she was tired. She was always at least a part of me; unmistakably present. With that missing, I feel empty.

"Day!" I yell again, and a light breaks overhead, flickering and fluorescent. It swings above me, dizzying, before disappearing. I'm reminded of lightning and old light bulbs that would flicker weakly when they were old, but this light is too bright and concentrated. I miss it almost immediately when it's gone, because it's the only change I've seen in this place so far. I don't even know how long I've been here, and that's suddenly disturbing.

"Day?" I shout, frustrated when my voice reverberates weakly in front of me, hardly loud enough for me to hear. She'll never hear me that way.

"Day!" This time it's an angry snarl, one I recognize too well from living, but it's still not loud. It's nothing against the void swallowing me up.

I made her a promise, and now I can't even find her. Fury – at myself and this damned place – surges and the barrier breaks. I remember being on fire, how it felt to be alive and how it felt to die. The pain is better than nothing at all. It's what made life worth living, because it gave me something to fight for.

I start running, even though I'm not sure if I'm moving at all. I have to find her, because if I don't, I've lied and she's all alone right now. I'd be no better than the Capitol that killed her in the first place. She's just a little kid. This place is too empty – it will swallow her up and crush her. I don't want her to be afraid like that.

Lights flash again above me, more menacing this time, like they're chasing me. I run faster, wishing for footsteps and the harshness of breath in my lungs. The air feels warped, and I understand what Day meant about this place changing your emotions without your consent. It's heavy and stifling, making panic crawl through me.

How could I have left Day behind? I swore that I'd take care of her, and it's my fault she's dead in the first place.

My vision is tugged violently sideways and I'm spinning, off course, when the voices break in.

They're high and clinical, snatches of conversation I don't understand, and they're blocking the way to Day.

"Just do something!" A male voice demands, booming from somewhere above me. The words are oppressive, filling the space and bringing the shadows around me to life. They twine around me and I can't move anymore, even though I'm fighting and thrashing and screaming.

"Get off me!" I snap, searching for arms and legs, anything to fight them off. The words are thick, choking me, and now fear stinks in the air. Dread is cold in the pit of my stomach and I can't shake it off as the words tug on me, dragging me away from Day.

"Let me go! Day! Day!" Then she feels just out of reach, and if I'm just a little louder, maybe she'll hear me. I'm trapped below the surface, and the words are pulling me upwards but away from Day. "Day! Where are you?" The desperation is raw in my voice.

"They're not coming out of it." The anxious voice booms and warbles around me, shattering the thick air and demanding me back.

"Day! Day!" My voice is hoarse, and she won't be able to hear me if I scream my voice away, but she's so close that I can feel her.

"Someone is going to live, damnit!"

The light explodes around me, and I'm fighting but it's no use. I'm dizzy and airborne, no longer grounded enough to hold onto myself.

"Come with me!" I try desperately, one last time, and I'm straining to hear an answer when I'm engulfed and there's a single pinprick of pain on my arm that bursts into something more, filling me and washing me away.

**xxxx**

"It worked." It's a gruff man's voice, soft with relief, and I am so, so alone.

_Day? _I try weakly, but there's a hole where she used to be, and I feel like I'm going to be sick.

"He's not waking up fast enough. Is there something wrong with him?" A female's voice now, detached and mildly curious. Her voice dips lower, betraying anxiety. "We did it all right, didn't we?"

"Yes. He should be fine. I have drugs for this."

There's another pinprick in my arm and the lucidity that has been missing this whole time comes flooding back.

I'm alive.

It doesn't feel how I wanted it to. I wanted it to feel like burning again, the thrill of fighting for what's mine. I wanted to appreciate every breath. But now all it is is a dull ache spreading over me and the heart-wrenching empty spaces in my head.

I'm alive, but I can't find her anywhere.

"Welcome back, Arden."

My eyes snap open because I'm human and I'm alive and that's instinct, even if I'd rather crawl back to wherever I just was and find Day. I am going to live, one way or another.

"Congratulations." She's dressed all in mint green, a messy bun made out of her auburn hair, and she has wiped away the exhaustion from her eyes. She looks fresh, but it's all fake. Her smile is warm, but her eyes are cold and focused.

"Where's Day?" I croak, but the much larger man flanking her doesn't seem to hear, because he speaks up.

"It's a pleasure to have us with you." His smile is actually warm – a relieved face, like I've done something for him. He's dressed in green, too, but he hasn't bothered to hide the recent lines around his eyes.

_Doctors. Capitol people, _my mind places them. I wait for Day to chime in, and when she doesn't it's like I can't breathe right.

"You've won the 150th Hunger Games," he announces, like I should be pleased. All I can feel is that I'm missing something. Not just Day. Roe and Coral, too, and the blood that used to be on my hands. I'm reaching for them even though I know that it's a lost cause.

"Don't move around much," he continues, and I think he's glad that I haven't spoken, because he doesn't offer me a chance. "Our Capitol medicines were able to heal your superficial wounds, but your new skin may be tender and your internal parts are trying to sort themselves out." He sounds cheerful, and I'm too shell shocked to resent that.

"Your first appearance will be tomorrow evening, and I trust that you will be well enough by then. Our medicines were made to work in short order." He smiles. "Your nurse will be able to tend to your needs and any questions you might have. Thank you." He departs, and I'm left feeling again that I've done something for him. The air is palpable with relief, but all I've done is wake up.

The nurse's eyes are the same – focused and clinical, even after the doctor leaves. She looks young, like she's just finding her feet and trying too hard to be professional.

I find my voice. "Where's Day?" It sounds rougher than in the tunnel from before, and I wonder if the fire burned that as well. "Where is she?" The second demand is a growl, low and angry. I struggle to sit up, finding no blood where it should be, and my side stretches easily. My fists are clutching the thin blankets on my bed, confirming my location. The hospital. They've brought me back to life.

I don't know what has happened, or how I'm breathing again, but none of that matters right now. All I can hear is Day screaming in my mind, dying with me, and I refuse to believe that she is gone.

"Excuse me?" She responds, blinking like she has never heard the name.

"Day. The girl," I spit out, and my teeth are ground tightly together. "The one you put in my damn head. What did you do with her?"

"I – I'm afraid I don't…" Her eyes are wide, unhelpful, and she's lying to me.

"What did you do?" I snarl, vaulting out of the tangled sheets and onto the cold hospital floor on unsteady legs. I nearly trip but regain my balance, overcompensating for a side wound that isn't there anymore.

Now she looks alarmed and flustered, backing herself into a corner of the stark hospital room.

"Where is she?" I roar, grabbing her shoulders and pinning her against the wall. This woman had something to do it. They're all lying to me, and they've done something to Day. I won't let them do this. They'll have to knock me out again before I lie down for them.

The nurse is scared; I can see it in her round eyes. "Please, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Day! The girl! The Quell theme, you idiot, how can you not know what I'm talking about?" My hands are shaking, and I don't know whether it's from anger or fear. I'm terrified that they've hurt her.

"The voice, you mean?" She swallows, her own arms trembling. "Was her name Day?"

"Yes," I spit, and my knuckles are white. "What did you do to her? If you hurt her…"

"No, no." She fumbles for words, relief bright in her eyes. "We didn't hurt her. Arden, you don't have to worry. No one hurt her."

Because she's given me what I wanted to hear, I release her and step back. Relief floods me, but I still don't trust her.

"You must be mistaken." Her words are feverish, an exhale. "No one could hurt Day, Arden. I know she sounded real to you, but she wasn't a real person. I mean, a girl named Day _was _real, a long time ago, but the voice you heard wasn't a real girl. The voices were programmed straight from the Capitol to say things that would match a specific personality type. Sometimes you were even sent direct messages. You see, it's ok. You have nothing to worry about. No one hurt her, Arden. She never felt any pain. You see? It's all ok."

She's looking at me hopefully, as if she's just solved all my problems, but I don't understand what she's telling me. It doesn't make any sense.

"What?" I rasp.

"Day, the girl you heard, was never real. She was just a program. She never felt any pain. You don't have to worry about her." She smiles gently, like it's a relief.

"No." I step backwards, away from her. "No. You're wrong."

I feel dead, numb as I watch her face melt into surprise.

"What's wrong?" She asks, looking genuinely confused.

She's lying to me. Day, the girl I swore I'd protect, was real. She had to be. I _loved _her. I didn't love a Capitol program. She laughed and cried with me and fought for me every step of the way. She was just a little girl, with a past and a family and hopes and dreams.

"I don't believe you," I whisper harshly.

"Why not?" She's still confused. "That's better, right? Would you rather she be dead? You burned, Arden." Her voice becomes hard. "I watched you. We all did. Would you rather her suffer, too?"

And she did. She screamed and screamed and I couldn't help her.

"That's not possible." My voice is flat, unyielding. "I promised her that I'd get her out. She just wanted to live again. That's not some program of yours."

"I'm not lying to you." She stares me down, business-like again. "We shut down the program. We took it out when your heart started beating again. Do you think the Capitol would really kill children a second time? No one would ever stomach that. The voices weren't real people, Arden."

"Yes. The Capitol would," I hiss, and it's true, I believe it. And they did. I refuse to think that Day was only a collection of the words sent to me directly from the Capitol. It's not possible.

I _loved _her.

"Now, you listen to me," she hisses back, and it has become a confrontation again. "That Career's stunt would have been good for the Hunger Games if he hadn't been such an idiot. The Capitol wouldn't have stopped talking about it until the next Hunger Games. But it backfired. Don't you remember, Arden? It wasn't just fire. That whole pressurized can exploded, and it got him, too. It lit both of you up, and we almost didn't have a victor.

"But we swooped in there and got both of you. The Hunger Games needed a victor. Both your hearts stopped in that operating room across the hall. You were both _dead." _Her voice drops, barely a whisper.

"But your heart restarted first, so we saved you. We euthanized him when he came back because _you won. _You owe your life to us, and you're going to get out there and be a damn victor." She's trembling again, tiny fists clenched.

"Do you understand me? This isn't a game anymore. Stop whining about voices in your head. This is about more than you now."

"You killed her!" I snap, because I am not willing to comprehend what she is saying. "You're lying to me." I'm furious and sick to my stomach, thinking of how close it all was. I got out. She should be here with me. That's what the promise was. But now they've taken her away.

"Lie down and be a good victor," she hisses. "Or there will be consequences. You have no idea what you're up against." She turns abruptly on her heel and stalks away, stopping in the doorframe only to order me to bed and slam the door. I don't hear a lock turn, but I know it's there.

I'm left with my hands at my sides, new skin on my bones, and empty spaces where Day used to be.

_Day? _I whisper one last time, and there's no response, only echoes.

_I don't care what they say. I won't forget you. I know you were here._

Day was here with me and she wasn't a program. She was so vibrant and real, more alive than anything else in the arena. They killed her and they're covering up. They're the Capitol. They take lives. I've learned that my whole life. I'll punish them for this. I'll prove to everyone that Day was here, and that she was a victim, _twice, _of the Capitol.

I repeat it to myself, holding on to what I have left of Day.

And then I grieve, for Roe and Coral and Day and everyone else, and because I'm still alive.


	31. Chapter 31

**Another long one. :) Thanks for reading!**

The nurse is gone, I have too many questions, and I am so, so tired.

All the energy I had, enough to make me spring out of bed and fight the nurse, has gone missing. Even the thrill of being alive – _alive,_ which should probably come as more of a shock than it does – is not enough. The doctor said that my body was recovering, and that it would take a little time before I was a hundred percent again. But I don't think that's what this is. It doesn't feel like healing to me.

I keep running my hands over my arms – there used to be a cast there – and my side – the wound that used to be there nearly killed me. My skin is whiter than it used to be, and for some reason that makes me angry. I earned my skin, and my scars, fair and square. I wonder if this skin is even mine. I assume most of mine was burned away by the fire.

I don't know whether I'm thankful or not that the Career didn't just cut my throat and be done with it. I'm alive, and that's something, but now at every movement my insides shift and groan, and there are yawning holes in my head that I refuse to think about.

And I am so, so tired.

It's so much harder now than it was before. Floating and unconscious, with those doctors doing all the work, nothing mattered. But now I have too many painful things to think about and I'm sitting on this hospital bed because I don't have the energy to stand and pace. I don't even get up and try the door to see if it really is locked.

There's no one here for me, either. I'm completely alone, and not just because of Day, who I'm trying not to think about. The nurse and doctor have been my only visitors since waking up, and I don't know if that's because of my injuries or just because I have no Capitol friends to speak of. Because of our unique Quell theme, there was no one invested in my success, like mentors or stylists.

The Quell theme. It's over. It's really over.

It doesn't feel like it. It doesn't even feel like I'm in a lonely hospital room. It just feels like I'm missing something, and that I still belong in the arena.

It's regret. Not just because of what I did, or what I saw, but because now that it's over, I want to go back and change it. There are things I want to do differently and people I want to say goodbye to. And I think, in a way, that the arena calls to us, and not just because it is sure to give me nightmares for the rest of my life and may have turned me into a paranoid wreck. Everyone who goes into that arena pours something of themselves into it. And the victors, the ones who spent the longest in there, leave behind the most important pieces.

I don't want to think about that, though, because they already took Day from me and I don't want to be missing anything else.

A nerve is struck at the mention of her name and the slow burn I've been suppressing is back again, demanding fire and revenge.

They killed her. I know they did. That nurse was just trying to feed me lies. The Capitol is fond of covering up their messes, and how messy is a victor who has befriended the voice in his head? They had to fix me up, so they thought it would be nice and tidy to just get rid of her and come up with this garbage about the voices being programs. It makes the Capitol humane in the eyes of the viewers, because how _messy _would it be if one of the tributes had a voice that was from a recent Games and still had family to speak of? What if that family knew? They would stop at nothing to get their child back. And if people knew that the Capitol had a way of at least bringing back the minds of lost loved ones, it would be chaos. Very messy. It makes sense, what they've done, and I'd believe it myself if not for the fact that I knew Day personally. A Capitol program couldn't have created someone like her.

I _refuse _to swallow their lies. I don't need their evidence. The only thing I need is the memory of her voice, so real that nothing they can say will convince me otherwise.

Then there's the sound of the door handle turning, and I have visitors.

The doctor and nurse from before flank a much larger man, and there's a tiny, nervous crowd forming behind them. I stare at them blankly, taking in the doctors' fearful expressions – the nurse is biting her lip, which reminds me painfully of Roe – until I realize who the big man is. He's less washed out than he is on the television screen, and much bigger in person, but I recognize him. It's the dead eyes that give him away.

The president of Panem is in my hospital room, and I don't think it's for anything good. Judging by the anxiety-stricken expressions on the doctors' faces, he's not here for a personal visit.

I can't do anything but stare back at him, unconsciously clutching a handful of sheets from the hospital bed.

"He pulled through," the president says, and his voice is as gruff and intimidating as it is on TV.

"Yes, sir," the male doctor rushes to say, wringing his hands together. I can't tell from here, but I think he's shaking. "We had to do extensive reconstruction and skin grafts, and a few cosmetic repairs, but he's ready for presentation." His words are stammered, spoken too quickly, and he swallows to steady himself. "He'll be perfect."

The president nods slowly. "Alright." I get the feeling that he doesn't speak much, but it seems to work for him better than screaming and shouting would. Everyone here is latched onto his every word. "See that he is."

Then he turns to leave, and there's palpable relief in the air. I realize now why it was so important that one of us wake up, because I can't imagine a Hunger Games without a victor. Since that was the responsibility of these doctors, if one of us hadn't pulled through they could have all been punished.

The nurses shift aside, out of his way, and I feel a surge of anger. I don't know who's really responsible for what happened to me in the Hunger Games and to Day, but I'm pretty sure he had one of the biggest roles in it. Roe and Coral didn't need to die. Heck, Ray and Greene didn't even need to. And he didn't have to destroy Day's last chance.

But there's nothing I can do. There's a click as the door closes and I feel like a piece of meat; inspected, bought, and used. Almost immediately afterward the lights go out in my room and it feels like an insult, but I have nothing to do but crawl back on the bed and sit, staring at the dark walls.

I have nothing to do but think, and I want nothing more than to forget.

I don't know how long the Hunger Games have been over. I don't even know how long they've all been dead. I thought that I was done grieving for Roe and Coral, but now that I'm out of the arena it's all I can think about. Not just them, either. The girl I killed on the coldest night in the arena haunts me now, and I can even remember the girl I let slip off of the wires in the bloodbath. None of them should be dead. I can't stop the feeling that it was all a joke, and that they'll all reappear, alive. In the arena, where it's kill or be killed, it doesn't feel quite real. All the deaths that I watched don't seem real, either. But I know that they'll never come back, because the Capitol has killed them.

And then there's Day.

I've refused to think about her this whole time, but now, in the dark, it's too easy to let her back in.

I can forget faceless tributes that were just cannon blasts in the dark, but not her. Her voice is as clear as if she was here with me, and that feels dangerous in the confines of the hospital room. It's going to tear me apart until there's nothing left of me but her voice begging me to stay with her.

I've seen what happens to the victors. They become haunted shells, drowning their pain in one way or another and losing more of themselves every year. They're not even human, instead just hollow embodiments of the Hunger Games themselves. I've always hated the District 7 victors for throwing their lives away after fighting so hard to keep them. They're disgusting and weak, unable to keep a hold on their own heads. But now, after this, I at least understand why it happens.

It's hard to stay sane when you start hearing things, like cannons that aren't there or the screams of dead tributes. But it's even worse when the voices in my head have left me behind.

I pull the pillow over my head and hold it tightly over my ears, blocking her out, because I am unwilling to go down that road. I don't owe it to the Capitol to be another one of their washed out drones. I refuse to let their grief do that to me. My life is _mine, _damnit, so I'm going to grieve, but they won't see. If they see, they'll use it to unhinge me. Instead, they'll only have my anger. I blame them. I blame them for Day. I blame them for everything.

I bury doubt. I bury grief. I bury fear. The only thing I keep are the people I met along the way, because they're mine and the Capitol can't take them twice.

I had forgotten how good I was at doing this.

Then I'm asleep, because I'm so, so tired.

**xxxx**

"Better eat fast," is my wake-up call, and there's a woman next to my bed dropping a tray on my chest.

"Woah," I grunt, pulling myself into a sitting position and holding the tray steady. My mind takes a moment to clear and my heart falls as I remember Day, but then she's chased away by the wave of anger I have been cultivating since they brought me back. I am angry. I hate the Capitol.

I can't take my anger out on this woman. She's tall, maybe taller than me, and thin as a rail, but what gets me is the expression on her face. The Capitol women I've met have all seemed to be gruff and mean, but this woman has a cheerful smile stretched across her face and ridiculously long nails that she's tapping together excitedly.

"Well, come on! You actually have to get stuff done today, sleepy." She smiles, ridiculously easy-going, and I see the faint tattoos that look like animal markings down her arms. Similar, faded ones stretch around her eyes when she smiles.

"I'm a gazelle," she interrupts suddenly, as if she's noticed my stare, but she seems delighted. "But don't worry, I really don't have hooves!" She reassures me, though I'd never imagined that she'd have any alterations like that. How would she even walk? I feel uneasy just thinking about it, and I remind myself not to look at any Capitol peoples' feet, just in case.

"It's a fake tan, too. I had to be golden to be a gazelle, but I don't really like the sun." Her smile is brilliant, and I can't find venom enough to hate her.

I don't know what to say, so I just nod and look back at the tray. I've hardly looked at what's on there before I start devouring it, hungrier than I thought I was. It feels so good after the long hungry stretches in the Games. I'm not sure I want it to feel good, though, because that means it's normal all over again and that the Games are just a memory.

The woman is still standing over me. "Those IVs just don't cut it, huh? Nothing like the good stuff!" She pats her belly. "Oh, but I guess they cleared the IVs out when you woke up. We can't make you much of a champion if you're dragging tubes around." She grins and winks, and I inspect the faint bruises on my hands that I suspect are IV marks. The Capitol couldn't fix that, I suppose.

"Yeah." I let the word hang, empty, between us, but she's not fazed.

"You done?" She's polite, but I can see her fidgeting with excitement.

"I guess so," I answer, swinging my legs off of the bed and standing crookedly, testing myself. Everything is moving too fast, dragging me in one direction when I only want to fix what's behind me, but I'm powerless to do anything about it.

"Oh, good!" She squeals. "They wouldn't let me touch your hair before, but I'm so excited! Coral didn't do a very good job, you know. I'm going to fix that. I love it long! It's just so rugged." She prattles on, but I'm caught off guard by her use of Coral's name so easily. It doesn't sound disrespectful when she says it like that. It sounds more like they were good friends and it sounds exactly right. I decide to like her.

"I don't have to come up with the costume myself this time?" I sound bitter, but she takes it as a joke and laughs, tipping her head back and shaking with it.

"Your camouflage was horrible," she giggles. "No worries, you don't have to do the hard stuff this time. Just sit and look pretty."

I'm busy remembering the girl who helped me with that, the aspiring stylist getting some hands-on experience by supervising the costume station. She wasn't supposed to help, but she did anyway. I want to thank her again, but I don't think I'll ever see her again. I just hope she wasn't caught.

"Alrighty," the stylist chirps, leading me down a corridor just outside of my hospital room and flinging open a door. "This is the place!" It's a simple room, just white on white and a chair with a supply table nearby.

She hurries me toward the chair and I sit down with a thump, staring back at her as she appraises me. I realize that I don't know her name.

"Hm." She folds her arms and taps one elbow with a single nail. "Beauty base zero must come first, I suppose, but then I _must _get to that _hair_!"

She goes to work and I have no choice but to sit still, trying to ignore what she's doing. It gets easier as time passes and it becomes monotonous, but with the quiet comes more time to think, and the only thoughts I have right now are the ones that try to tear me apart. The thoughts are easy enough to block, but the images are poisonous and much harder to forget. I combat the images with the faces of grizzled old victors wrecked by the Hunger Games. I will not be them. I will not let the Capitol take my life away from me, even if it means letting go of Day. I've already fought for and won it once.

My hair falls silky around my face, tickling me, and I can't remember it ever being this annoying. I blow it away from my face as stray strands fall into my eyes.

"Hey, hey, woah, I'm almost done. But your skin is hard to work with, and you have way too many frown lines." She prattles on about my skin, and I study my hands. They're clean now, and whiter than before, with perfectly rounded nails. They don't look like they belong to me. If they could do that, surely they could fix the anger set deeply in every line she's complaining about.

"There! Finally!" She shuffles around some of the equipment on the table and I turn to watch her as she picks a pair of scissors. She turns my head back around and orders me to hold still as she snips away, sliding the metal dangerously close to the back of my neck. I feel paranoid as she cuts, but as uncomfortable as I am, there's nothing to do about it. There are a lot of snipping and spraying noises involved, but it takes her only a few minutes to finish.

"Yes! That's it!" She steps back, hands on her hips, to appraise me. "You have to get a look at this." She holds a mirror up to my face, and before I have a choice I'm staring back at myself.

I look angry. There's nothing her powders and creams can do to erase that.

But I don't look like I just stepped out of the Hunger Games. My skin is smooth and glowing subtly from some product of hers, and I don't have the bags and creases of desperation and hunger around my eyes. My hair isn't the mop it used to be, either. Now it's tame and well mannered, sweeping just across the tops of my eyes and held in place by the stylist's hair spray. There are new, silky strands of varying lengths hanging around my face.

I frown harder, trying to change the image. It feels wrong to hide the Hunger Games beneath the powder and glitter. It makes me feel like a coward to pretend as if it never happened. I wanted to carry it for everyone to see.

"You like it?" She asks, and drops the mirror so that I can see her eyes.

"Yeah. Sure," I say flatly, and I can't resist running a hand through the hair, as if that would make me normal again. It bounces back into place, completely won over by the stylist's hand.

She smiles and claps, and I feel bad.

"Hey," I attempt, because she's so excited that I can't hate her for it. "My hair gets out of control pretty easily. I'll probably need to be able to find you again." I try a half-smile. "I don't think we were ever introduced, really. What's your name?"

"Oh!" She pipes. "Oh, I'm so silly. I'm Rilia. And I already know who you are. Shake?"

I obediently hold out my hand and she grins radiantly while she shakes it.

"So," I begin again as she smiles wider. "What are you doing next? I don't know if I'm supposed to ask or not-"

I'm worried about what stunt she'll be pulling on me next, like piercings or body art, but she interrupts before I have time to complete the thought.

"Oh, that's fine! Actually, I'm going for a down to earth look. The Capitol folks will eat it up, because they want you the way you were in the arena. I could dress you up, but then they would hardly recognize you. I'm just going to make you gorgeous. You'll knock their socks off just by being you, I think."

She plops me back down on the chair before I can speak up and scurries back to work, and I ignore her once again until she's done. Then she stands me up, spins me around, and pronounces me complete.

"Now you just need the right wardrobe. Unfortunately, I'm not the one who gets to dress you up, but it will be perfect, don't worry." She stops talking for a moment and frowns, looking downcast. "I think I'm going to miss you." But then her smile is beaming again, and she takes my hand to shake it a second time. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Arden."

"You, too. Thanks, Rillia." I smile back at her and I wonder when I'll get to stop smiling. It feels fake and insulting to the other 23 tributes, but I can't disappoint Rillia or the Capitol, so I guess I'm stuck with it. I genuinely like Rillia, and I don't want to disappoint her, but it's hard to keep acting.

She sighs and pushes me forward, shaking her head in amusement. "Sit down again. Your wardrobe stylist gets antsy if you squirm around too much." I must look alarmed, because she laughs. "She's not that bad. We're friends; she won't do anything too horrible to you."

I nod and she sighs absently. "She's normally on time," Rillia chirps to herself. "I did tell her the right room, didn't I? Umm…" She trails off, but then the doors swing open and another lady enters.

"Is he clean yet?" The new stylist calls across the room, and Rillia rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Can't you tell? Come on, silly, don't mess with me like that. I'm good at this."

"As long as he doesn't stink," the woman replies dryly, but I spot a twinkle in her eye and realize that this is regular banter between the two of them.

"I've got it covered," Rillia assures her with a grin. "Bye, Arden! Look for me in the crowd tonight! You know I'll be there!" She bounces over to the other stylist and gives her an enthusiastic high five before exiting.

"Well, then," the stylist says without preamble. "I'm Aud. You're District 7. Get dressed." She has thick black hair that's tied back, but the ends of her hair still sweep her hips. I don't know how Capitol people get their hair that long, but I get the feeling I'm going to see a lot more of it. Her skin is bleached pale and her eyes are rimmed in coal that wings up, following the arc of her cheekbones. She's a testimony to black and white, and sharp black nails protrude from her alien fingers. The strangest part of her costume, though, is the clump of tiny black feathers protruding from each elbow. They appear to be surgically implanted, and now that I think about it she does sort of resemble a bird. Her animal markings don't fit her as well as Rillia's gazelle prints did, though, and her eyes are a wide brown that look out of place with the rest of it.

She dumps a pile of folded material in my lap and folds her arms. "I'm supposed to be in charge of this, really, but Rillia's the ring leader around here, and she was pretty adamant about you." She sighs. "It's just a suit. It's not going to bite. Rillia's orders."

She raises one eyebrow when I don't say anything. "Go on. Go change. I'm done here." She shakes her head. "It's not like I even had a job to do," she grumbles and waves a hand at me dismissively. "Someone will be here in a few minutes to escort you to the square."

I must look anxious, because she snorts. "You can make that face all you want, but every victor has to do it. They're going to string out every painful moment on that screen. Try not to cry all over yourself. That happens sometimes." Her eyes are flat, but I think her disdain is directed towards the ceremony of re-watching the Games, not at me. "It never ends, you know. There's the interview tomorrow night, and the victory tour. And mentoring every year."

She turns to go, but I stop her before she's out the door.

"The voices," I start, and falter. She looks at me, and I swallow. "The Quell theme. What…what did the Capitol say about them?"

"You're not making any sense," the stylist replies flatly.

"During the opening ceremonies. They had to explain the theme more, didn't they? What did they say?"

"That instead of a mentor, you'd get messages from the Capitol to help you out, and that during the Hunger Games they'd give you advice. But it was just to make the tributes go crazy, and most of them did."

I wonder if I count under her analysis. I'm mourning the death of a voice in my head.

"What did you want to know?" Her eyes are cold, unsympathetic, and I know she has no idea what was really happening in the arena. To her, and all of the other Capitol citizens, Day was just a program. And maybe she was. I don't know what to think anymore, or even what's right. Maybe it's better that she never went through all of that with me, and that the real Day is in peace, wherever that may be. But it's hard to say that when I miss her this much, and I don't want everything to have been for nothing. Despite all of the pain in the Hunger Games, Day was always happy to just be alive, even for just a short while. She at least deserved that.

"Nothing," I answer slowly, but of course it's a lie. I have so many questions that they are swallowing me whole and I'm drowning in them. I don't even know what I'm supposed to want anymore. All I know is that the Capitol has hurt Day and everyone else, whatever the truth behind the voices is.

"Look," she says. "I know you haven't had much Capitol experience, so you can feign ignorance if you like. But don't be stupid out there tonight, alright? You're always being watched. And don't let those damn victors get you, if you can help it. The scavengers." She spits the words out, disdain scrawled clearly across her eyes. "There are a lot of politics here, boy. Be careful."

I grunt noncommittally, unwilling to let her suck me into yet another mind game. I'm done with games. All I care about at the moment is getting through each moment and not letting the Hunger Games change me even after it's all over. I won't be one of those empty victors. My life is _mine. _

But then I think of Day, and how painful and fragile her life was despite how hard she tried, and I'm not so sure anymore. The Capitol hurt her, and the Capitol can hurt me. I'm not even sure that anything I do will be worth it, because if anything I've learned how unsure life is.

So I'm left clinging to fraying strings, full of empty direction, and missing a girl that might not have existed in the first place. But I'll hold on, because I have to.


	32. Chapter 32

**Sorry about the wait, guys! This chapter was originally part of a longer, monster chapter that is approaching 10,000 words, so I decided to cut this part off and make a separate chapter for the sake of flow and a quicker update. Thanks for reading! :)**

I'm alone again, left with a bundle of clothing and an empty room. The stylist has disappeared, promising that someone will be by in a minute to collect me and escort me to the square, where I'll be forced to watch the Hunger Game recaps and lead a running commentary on the events that nearly killed me. I wonder if she has left the door unlocked, and whether or not I could just slip out and be free. Now, though, I don't have anywhere to run. I'm completely at the Capitol's mercy, and if I tried to leave they'd only track me down so that they could use me some more. There's not even a need to lock that door, because this is the kind of threat I can't escape from.

I get dressed quickly, because there's nowhere to change discreetly in this empty room and there's no guarantee that some exuberant Capitolite won't come charging in at any second.

Like clockwork, as soon as I finish there's a knock at the door, and I'm wary only because whoever it is bothered to knock.

"Yeah?" I call, hovering in the center of the room, unsure of whether or not I have to open the door for them.

And then it's a face I recognize, not quite a relief but still glaringly out of place against the shining backdrop of the Capitol.

A tall figure slips in, closing the arched doors behind him with a soft thump. "You're Arden, right?" He asks, looking up from the floor in front of him to meet my eyes.

His voice is gravelly, roughened inevitably by the sawdust and dirt that we breathe in our entire lives, but it has a softened, gentle outline. His words are cultured and modified, clearly clipped to disguise the District 7 growl rumbling in his syllables. He's one of our victors, the most forgettable of the bunch because he's hardly seen in public enough to make a fool of himself.

His blue eyes, so clear that they're nearly transparent, stare back at me and wait for a response. I feel immediately defensive, all of my hatred for the victors coming to a boil beneath my skin. He looks too well put-together, civilized and refined without a trace of the Hunger Games to spoil him. He doesn't look like he's carrying the deaths of 23 others on his shoulders, and I resent him for it. But despite how clean his image is, there's something disconcerting about his wide, clear eyes. There's a bright fever spiked in his pupils, clouded by his cultured words and perfectly shaven appearance but still present, and I know he's using something to cope. Something's off about him. I think of drugs, scarce but available, and watch his eyes burn with unhealthy fervor.

But he's still calm, watching me with lightly folded arms and all of the time in the world.

"Yeah. That's me. And I know you."

"Right. Yes. Cut the pleasantries." He strides in my direction and meets my eyes, as if he has secrets to spill. "We don't have much time."

He comes closer and I jerk away, set on edge. I'm done with games. I'm done with time running out. I'm so sick of all of this.

"No," I say, shaking my head, and the words pour out, defensive. "No. No secrets. No more of this. Take me to the square. I'm done." I know I haven't given him time to explain, but the way he's leaning toward me confidentially makes me feel uneasy. My temples pound, and Day is scratching at my interior, demanding my attention. Demanding that I turn into one of those damn victors. I know it's not real, but it's hard for me to concentrate on this guy and my own mind turning on me. I'm incredibly good at tricking myself, bringing Day's voice back to life inside my thoughts.

"Pay attention," he growls, taking my shoulders and gripping them until I yank back, but he has my attention. His eyes burn with something else, human urgency that I wasn't sure he had.

"They've really screwed you up, haven't they?" He asks, and it's in parts scorn and pity. "You keep zoning out."

_No, _I want to insist. I'm fine. I've been fighting this whole time so that I wouldn't end up like him, and I've done a damn good job of it. I'm sane. I'm me. They haven't beaten me. He's wrong.

"I'm not," I snap back, moving out of the way of his intense eyes. "Just get away from me." I remember what the stylist, Aud, said about the victors. _Don't let the victors get you. _She called them scavengers. I think of a vulture staring me down. I don't know what's up with the rest of the victors, but I've already sworn not to be like them. I won't let them touch me.

"Hey, listen. Stop that. You're losing it." His voice is stern, but his eyes are touched by panic and the haze of fever again. I can feel my control slipping, and I don't know which one of us is right anymore. All the while Day cries out, demanding release.

I snap, pent up fire finally breaking free. I throw a punch, grinding into the nose of this man in front of me, and he staggers back. My hands shake as I draw back, but it's only from adrenaline and irrational anger coursing through my blood. I can breathe again.

"I said, I'm done," I growl out loud, and my words are bitten with ragged exhalations, but I mean it. Breath rushes through my lungs, in and out, and a pressure is released from my chest. The commotion in my head, guilt and confusion and Day, clears and I can think again.

"I know." It's the victor, clutching his bleeding nose with one hand. He watches me, just breathing for a moment. "We all felt that way." Now he looks tired, eyes drooping and hiding the fever. "Hang onto that when the nightmares start. Stay angry. Reclaim your life. Maybe you're stronger than the rest of us." He looks at me, haunted, but his words are sure. "It never goes away, but you can try to ignore it, to a point." He rubs the redness out of his eyes, driving back the fever he has created.

"I'm sorry about your nose," I say, because in the silence this is the only thing left to be said.

"It's no problem. Been a while since someone hit me." He shrugs. "Don't do it again, though."

"Ok." My answer is flat, hanging in the air. I make for the door. No more delays. I want to get this part over with.

"It's the voices, isn't it?" He stops me in my tracks and I turn slowly, dreading what damage he could do now, with Day's fragile memory held in his hands.

"That girl you talked about, right? Day."

"She's dead," I answer huskily. It's my refrain now. "They killed her."

"You know, they say that they were only programs. No pain at all."

"I've heard that," I answer, and the flatness in the words is enough to choke me. "It's not true."

"You don't say." He pauses, treading slowly, forming each word carefully. "I've heard rumors about the Capitol. That they have an obsession with human life, and not just with taking it away. It's been said that they're fascinated with the way the mind works, and the consciousness of a human being. What makes a person who they are. What part of a person lasts even after death."

His eyes find mine, and they're so sharp that I think he has tricked himself into being sober.

"There have been rumors of experiments. Mutts that are more human than lab creature, with borrowed parts. Alterations to bodies after they're pulled up by the hovercraft. Dissections. Cryogenically frozen children.

"They say they've tried to capture and preserve the mind. The _soul._"

He takes a breath and my heart races, suddenly unsure again.

"Conspiracies say that they've been trying to unlock the code for years to discover how to truly preserve the mind. But those questions aren't that easy to answer. I guess we'll all have to wait until we're dead to figure out what's really behind all of these thoughts in our heads." He taps the side of his head and looks away.

As if reconsidering, he glances back at me, and his mouth is drawn in a grave line. _I don't know, _he mouths. But it's enough for me. I can remember Day's voice, though it's safely locked away somewhere else inside me, and know that she was really here. I don't think I'll ever have evidence enough to prove that they put her, whatever made up the real Day, in my head, but I'm sick of uncertainty. I've made up my mind.

"Thanks," I say, and the conspiracy in his eyes vanishes, replaced by the fever he uses to keep the monsters at bay. The same monsters that are lurking outside, waiting to welcome us with open arms.

"Ready to go?" He asks, and I nod. He leads me through white corridors and white doors until the lobby and the open world greet us, threatening and looming after the tiny arena that became my world. A peacekeeper stops us – official paperwork, he calls it, though he knows where we're going – and then I'm being ushered by the District 7 victor and a handful of peacekeepers into an empty monorail car that will take us straight to the square.

I don't look up as the car jolts into motion, speeding along the slender track. I know that an intricate skyline is flashing past me in all of the glory that the Capitol has to offer, but I'm not concerned with that now. My mind is racing, grieving, and I'm trying to forget that in a few minutes I'll be watching every painful movement strung out on screen. The Capitol will cheer and the interviewer, cheery Amelia Flickerman with her borrowed name, will prod at me for the answers she wants to hear until she has taken me apart bit by bit.

And Day is really and truly gone.

I don't want to see them. Not just the interviewer and her flock of brightly-colored admirers, but the dead faces onscreen that still feel very alive to me.

"Time to go," the District 7 victor says, and I struggle to remember his name as he touches my shoulder and the monorail slows to a jolting halt. He blinks hard, clearing the faint red clouding his eyes, and frowns. "Good luck up there." He opens his mouth as if to say more, but then he slips away, out of the monorail, and disappears into the gathering throng of people in the square.

_I wish Day was here._

The peacekeepers make a tiny contingent around me, steering me through a special entrance, back and around the main square until we're behind the looming stage. Workers mill around us, paying no attention to our progress as they adjust microphones and lights and yell incoherent things to each other. This is the detail that goes into a single presentation. It's all bustle and energy, nothing like the cold, lonely seat on stage that I'm dreading.

There's even a team of fluttering stylists that grabs me from the Peacekeepers as I am shuffled around behind the thick black curtain, just waiting for the signal to go onstage. They check my appearance, concluding that I am satisfactory, and with jerking, nervous movements, release me to the Capitol.

"You're on," a plain-faced man tells me urgently, flapping his arms toward the tiny portal on the side of the stage that is my route to the other side of the curtain. He attaches a nearly invisible microphone to the side of my head, gives me a once-over, and releases me.

It feels like the Reaping all over again. I don't want to present myself in front of all these cheering faces, but already the roar is mounting on the other side of the stage and I have no choice. And like the Reaping, despite the horror and dread curling in my stomach, I shut down and step on stage. There is no emotion. There is no need. I have already won their Games.

_But I wish Day was here._

The lights are too bright, blinding me as I emerge onstage. But unlike in the arena, I don't need these 60 seconds to take it all in. The lights are a mercy, shielding me from the screaming crowd so that I don't have to face it yet.

But there's nowhere to go, and without my consent I can see again and I am made vulnerable before the Capitol audience. Because I have no choice, my steps become steady and I make my way to the center of the stage, where a single plush chair waits for me, artfully angled against Amelia Flickerman's own seat.

I focus on the interviewer, because that means ignoring the hungry crowd below. I am afraid of slipping, as if I could fall right into their greedy jaws.

Much like their borrowed names, the same "Flickerman" year after year, the interviewers follow a pattern of color-themed costumes, because that's the way it has always been. There are only so many colors, and the interviewer usually just hopes that it has been long enough between colors that the viewers have forgotten the last time it was worn, but this year Amelia has made herself into a star.

Her theme is gold, that much is obvious, but she has pushed it past the realm of color. She is luminous, made of light and coated entirely in a fine layer of liquid gold. Her skin drips with it, a coating of color that is so bright it can't just be paint. She is dusted in fine, glittery powder that catches the light and makes prisms in my eyes, making her hard to look at. Even her clothes are golden; her tightly fitted slip is a burnished gold a few shades darker than the rest of her. Her blonde hair is bound back behind a golden tiara but spills out everywhere, white ringlets cascading down her shoulders. She is a goddess, down to her long nails crusted with splinters of gold and the pearly teeth that are incandescent in her grin.

I look away, eyes stinging. With any luck, the crowd will be too fixated on her to watch me. My gaze flicks over the stage, anywhere but in Amelia's direction, and I find the dark screen looming above our chairs. I quickly look back at the interviewer, choosing her over the deaths hidden behind the display.

I've made it to my seat, and I thump down awkwardly as the crowd's screams recede and Amelia turns to face me. All I can think as she turns her blinding grin on me is that I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't know what angle to play, or what's even safe to say anymore. I don't know the protocol for what happens after I've won.

"Welcome, welcome all! I give you, your Quarter Quell victor!" Amelia announces to the crowd, arms outstretched in welcome, and I've stepped into hell.


	33. Chapter 33

**I realize that this was a terribly long wait for a chapter, and I'm sorry, but it was hard to get this chapter going and the recaps are taking much longer than I expected they would. I know the recaps were kind of summarized in the books, but I wanted to go over all of the details, so you get this massive chapter instead. :) Thank you guys **_**so, so much **_**for reading this far. Your interest in the story means a lot to me.**

I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the lights burning down on me and blink hard, trying to clear the spots from my vision. Amelia Flickerman gives off nearly as much light as the spotlight, and I wonder how she's not blinding everyone. She waves her hand and smiles warmly, and the spotlight trained on her is diminished to a pool of faint light around her. Then she is just a painted woman, done up to look like a star, but fake.

There are a few more hoots and cheers from the crowd, but I ignore them. I fight past the queasy, nervous feeling coiling in the pit of my stomach, squinting so that the mass of Capitolites below are out of my line of sight. There's no way that I'll make it through this if I think about how they're watching me the whole time. With all of these eyes on me, it feels like the arena. I'm entertainment to them all over again.

Amelia turns to me, leaning in slightly, and her eyes are wide and eager like a little girl's. Her hands are clasped in her lap, nails woven together in a complicated pattern that looks vaguely grotesque.

"Well, we've all just been dying to hear from you!" Amelia coos, and in an instant she straightens again, turning her radiant smile to the crowd.

"Haven't we, guys?" She calls, and the people roar back, cheering and stomping like I've actually done something for them.

She laughs, a tinkling sound, and turns back to me. "Now, I suppose we must get down to business, but it really is a pleasure to talk to you." She looks at me, expectant, and I realize that now I have to talk as well.

My throat dries up with the next breath I take, but because the clock is ticking, I manage to choke out a generic, "you, too."

She smiles, pleased. "I know we've already seen the Games," she says, drawing a breath. She leans closer to me, like she's whispering a secret. I feel Roe's breath on my ear all over again, promising me a way out.

_I know a way we can both get out of here._

And we're both out, but she's a corpse somewhere else and the guilt is so strong that I can't breathe. We were _so close, _and I'll never even know what her plan was. Reliving the moment makes ice sweep my veins.

Amelia is still at my ear, giggling like there's a joke between us. "But I'm sure you still have a few juicy secrets for us." She draws back and I manage a pained smile, still catching my breath.

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

The screen springs to life above us and I fight not to shrink back. I fix my eyes on it as if it's a life raft, because the alternative is the hungry crowd below. I can't decide what's worse; reliving the arena or being devoured again by the Capitol, which threatens to swallow me up.

There's a shot of District 7, trees and homely people that I've missed so much that loneliness swamps me, reminding me of why I'm still alive. To go home. The camera swerves around the district, all the way to the square, which is decorated not with banners and streamers but the anxiety hanging in the air.

Then there's my name, called out in a foreign Capitol accent, and the camera pans to my face. I see confusion, stark on a younger face that doesn't belong to me anymore. My hair is long enough to shroud my eyes as I squint and make my way up to the stage. That me is wooden, still in shock and trying to hide it from the cameras. I had decided to be blank, so that no one would know me until I had chosen a strategy. To me, I just look confused.

I reach the stage and there's the fiasco with the other District 7 tribute, who grabs my hand and smirks, embarrassing me in front of the entirety of Panem. I remember hating her. I also remember that she's dead now, a bloodbath tribute, and her cocky eyes don't seem as important.

The me on screen faces the crowd and the slip of paper bearing my name flutters out of the escort's fingers and to the ground, forgotten even though it condemned me to this.

"Whew. You don't look a bit nervous there, Arden." The camera zooms in on the angry lines that were already forming around my eyes, innocent compared to the permanent crevices etched into my face now.

"From the first minutes, I think we all knew you were a contender."

She's lying. I didn't see anyone lining up to sponsor me. That's what this recap is; a way to spin me in a positive light before they let me loose in the world. I'm supposed to leave a good impression on these people.

She looks at me, eyes wide with just the right amount of curiosity, and I remember that I'm supposed to keep a running commentary on the events onscreen, and that this is an interview as much as it is a review of the Games.

I remember being dragged into the train before ever getting to say goodbye to anyone, because the Capitol was twisting their theme beyond reasonable bounds. But I don't say that.

"I didn't know what to think," I say after a pause that's drawn out too long to be comfortable. I shift in my seat, wishing I could just escape.

"You never thought that you might get chosen?" She asks innocently.

No, I never did. I was either naïve or too busy to think about it. The Reaping was another thing to get past, not a serious reality. The Hunger Games were awful, but they were only a blip on my radar as I went about my daily life. I had other things to think about.

"I was surprised," I answer evasively, and sweat breaks out on my brow as the lights beat down.

She smiles. "I think I would be, too!" Her cheerful words are uncomfortably familiar, as if the two of us have established a bond within five minutes spent on this stage.

The screens lights again, filled with the full glory of the Capitol, all lights and colors and screaming crowds as the camera spins towards the Capitol square, where the Chariot rides would take place. I realize that this version of the Hunger Games ignores everything between the Reaping and the Chariot Rides.

I don't know whether I'm glad about that or not. Everything that happened was horrible, but it feels like a betrayal to forget about it. I don't want to forget about meeting Day, even though remembering the hatred I had originally felt for her hurts. I don't want to forget about anything she said, even as she was begging me to forgive her for her intrusion in my head. I have to carry that with me.

And I don't want to forget everyone I met, from the slightly off-kilter people working the training station to the girl, whose name I forget, that helped me put together a chariot costume even though she wasn't allowed to.

But those memories belong only to me now, I suppose. The Capitol gets to pick and choose what they show the rest of the world. They can't have anyone thinking that I'm anything but the person they constructed on screen.

The screen zooms in on a few choice chariots, like the District One girl's predictably well-done goddess outfit and the pitiful attempt at makeup on the girl from Three. I feel bad, thinking that this was Ray's district partner, who died even before he did, and now she's just the laughingstock of the Capitol. They chuckle at her clumsy outfit, all smiles and bright teeth as the dead girl rolls by onscreen.

I sit back, thinking that I just have to get through this now that Amelia isn't prodding me for answers anymore. But then it's Coral's chariot on the screen, and my heart sinks as her face pops up from a chariot emblazoned with sea shells, grinning as if she is having the time of her life. Her bright hair is teased crazily about her face and her cheeks are painted pink, as colorful as the stain on her wide, smiling lips. Her clothes are artfully ripped and dried seaweed is wrapped between strands of golden hair, like she has just been washed onshore. She throws back her head to laugh, and she looks so alive that my stomach twists. I'm going to be ill right here on stage.

Amelia Flickerman turns her gaze from the screen to me, predatory, as I clutch the armrests and turn my fingertips white.

Coral winks at the camera and I can't look at Amelia because I feel like I'm drowning. I can see her dying again, the blush in her cheeks spilling out of her chest instead. She turns to the crowd and puts her arms out, waving, but it looks to me like there's blood on her fingers and she's reaching for me, begging me to help her. And I abandon her for the second time, looking away to stare fiercely at the stage underneath my feet.

_I'm sorry._

And there's no one there to acknowledge my thoughts. Sorrow is thick in my chest, and I don't even know who exactly I'm missing anymore.

"She was a third of your alliance, right?" Amelia begins slowly, encouragingly, and I wonder how malicious she must be to dig this out of me.

"Yeah. Coral," I say, and my words are choked.

"Not your average Career, huh? Left the pack to join an alliance with you and Roe, and her methods were very interesting." Amelia's words glow with tacky, false affection that these Capitol viewers eat up. "We were all intrigued by her. It's not often that you see someone who's not a cookie-cutter Career."

I think it's the first time I've ever heard a Capitol person say something negative about a Career.

"She put on quite a show," Amelia continues brightly, and I realize that she means it as a compliment. That's what the tributes are supposed to do.

Onscreen, the crowd screams for Coral. Amelia demands my attention and I can't stare at the stage floor any longer. "What was your relationship with her?" She prods. She needs sound bites, something to feed the audience and make this recap memorable. She no longer looks kind to me, though I know that the loose angle to her smile is supposed to be comforting and open.

"We were a close alliance," I mutter, because that's all I am willing to say. _We were friends, _my mind corrects and I feel uncomfortable, sorry that I couldn't acknowledge that here on this stage. It feels like another betrayal, but all I've done to Coral is betray her.

"We'll see more of her later," Amelia assures the crowd and they cheer in reply, enamored with the same girl they sent to die.

Coral exits the screen to the left and I can breathe again.

A few more terrible costumes roll by onscreen, faces I don't recognize, and then it's my turn. I am nothing special, despite the surprisingly good job the Capitol girl did with my camouflage paint. The greens and browns are smudged around my eyes – angry war paint that cracks as I scowl. I stare down the crowd, doing myself no favors as potential sponsors watch me go by. I suppose my angle was to be intimidating, but that thought process feels so far away. The person on the screen does not feel like me. That person doesn't belong to the Hunger Games the way I do.

The screen darkens and the Chariot Rides are over. I remember that night, how Day worked up the courage to introduce herself and I screamed at her, so afraid of what she might do. That night was hell, but now it only makes me regret.

I realize belatedly that they never showed Roe's chariot, which doesn't make sense considering how she was the other part of our alliance. My stomach lurches at the thought of her, and suddenly I appreciate that she hasn't made an appearance.

The screen races forward, skipping over minutes and days to the opening of the interviews, the second time the Capitol saw the tributes after the Reapings. It forgets my time in the training arena, which was vaguely creepy, and my mediocre session with the Gamemakers. These Capitol viewers don't care about what happens in between the public appearances, just the results that are presented to them on a silver platter.

This segment opens with another spiraling view of the Square, which is once again packed with eager Capitol citizens. Amelia Flickerman is back on stage, welcoming the first tribute to be featured, the witty girl from District 2 who introduces herself as Lea Monty. I realize with a start that she is the one I let slip from the wires during the bloodbath, and I have to ward off guilt at the sight of her. She was a Career, I remind myself. She deserved it. She exchanges a joke with Amelia and smirks, utterly confident and almost as full of life as Coral.

She was just on the wrong side.

A snippet of Ray's interview is up next, and I wonder if that's random or if the Capitol actually cared about the brief time I spent in that alliance. His expression is pinched onscreen, like talking to Amelia is beneath him, or maybe he was just as sick of all these ceremonies as I was. But Amelia cracks a joke and Ray responds with lightning wit that sets the Capitol audience ablaze with laughter, and even now I can hear a few titters from the audience as they remember. That joke was not enough to win their hearts, though. No one will sponsor a tribute from Three. The buzzer rings to signal that time is up.

Amelia looks at me, and before she gets a chance to prompt me into painful conversation, I speak up.

"Uh, yeah, that's Ray. I wouldn't say our alliance was that compatible," I comment, and the Capitol laughs at that, because I was more like a prisoner than an ally. "But he was an ok guy." That could be a lie. I never really knew him. I give him the benefit of the doubt, though, because like me, he had to deal with a voice in his head. Just that he had the patience to ally with Greene says something, as well.

The screen dims and reemerges on Coral's interview, and her clip involves her laughing once again, doubled over with Amelia Flickerman as they giggle.

"So, what's your strategy in the arena?" Amelia asks as the laughter subsides.

Coral's eyes twinkle. "Well, that's a secret! I have a few tricks up my sleeve, though." She tugs on one sleeve of her thin silver dress in an exaggerated fashion, like she could conceal her plans that easily. Such a display would look cheesy on anyone else, but the grin on Coral's face is light and airy, innocent. There is nothing contrived about the way she laughs.

I wonder if it was in her plan to leave the Careers and die like the rest of us.

"And what about your family back home? What are they thinking?" It's a long recycled question, but I can't help but lean in to hear whatever it is Coral has to say. Her words are worth more now.

"Oh, they're proud, of course. I'm doing what my siblings haven't gotten to do. My brothers aren't the luckiest at volunteering, and my sister's only thirteen." She grins, leaning closer to Amelia confidentially. "I think they're a little jealous, but don't tell anyone!"

She has siblings. I imagine that they'd all laugh like her, heads tilted back and eyes glowing with it. But not anymore. Not after this.

"Yeah, that's exactly the kind of thing she would say," I comment reluctantly and the stage lights sweep around me, returning the focus to the sweat on my brow and the way my hands are still clutching the armrests. "But I didn't know she had siblings," I finish lamely, uncomfortable in my own skin as the Capitol stares me down. For the first time I'm forced to think about how her family would perceive me. Am I a good person for hurting now, when I see her face and know that she can't smile like that anymore? Or do they hate me because I ran when there was a boy ripping her apart?

I can see his knife going into her again and again.

I will never be done grieving for this girl.

Then it's my turn again to be featured onscreen, and this version of me is a lot better than the last at scowling. I don't look confused anymore as I sit down next to Amelia Flickerman. The crowd murmurs and claps politely below; they don't care about me yet. Then, I was just the tribute from 7.

I wonder why it was so easy to change their minds. That crowd on the screen is the same one that cheers for me now, packed into the Square just to see the Quarter Quell victor. If I have changed, and I know I have, it has been for the worse. But because I carry this title, I mean something to them.

"I know you haven't been able to meet the other tributes," Amelia opens onscreen, "but with your training score in mind, what do you think your chances are in the arena?"

"They're good," the other me says, staring at a spot of floor just beyond Amelia's chair. My eyes are narrowed as if even this is a question I am not willing to answer.

My answers are flat and unsatisfactory. I wonder what the point of showing this interview is, because I'm clearly not a master of words. In fact, my intention in this interview was to look unimpressive and forgettable.

That may be why my time on screen is brief. The video doesn't show any of my other replies, not even the most inflammatory one about Day. I remember how _angry _I was at her, and I regret it. It's too late to do anything about it now, and I don't feel like I ever made up for it. Maybe I broke even – hatred first, then a working relationship between us. But I didn't do anything to make it better. She's still dead.

It seems the Capitol likes working in threes, because the interview of a third tribute springs to life onscreen. It takes me a second, but then I recognize him, and the fury that sweeps me is enough to make my stomach turn.

He's clean-cut, dressed in a sharp suit, and his smile is perfect as he looks at Amelia: calm and friendly, with just the right amount of curiosity. But I see him instead stabbing Coral, jerking the knife in and out as she screams. Coming at me and Roe with that damn knife of his. Smiling, blood on his face, as he laughs off Coral's murder.

"Camden Alexander, at your service," he introduces himself, smiling lightly and giving Amelia a firm handshake. He looks perfectly sane, but I know better.

He was the beginning of the end.

"Why him?" I hiss between gritted teeth, sucking in a sharp breath. My fingers curl inward, searching for something to use against the figure onscreen.

But Amelia Flickerman ignores me, instead turning on that cheerful smile again and blinking at me with wide, friendly eyes. "Would you like to tell us anything about him?"

I stare at her, shock pulsing through me as my fingers shake and a murderer chuckles in the background. I have to suck in another breath as the world spins under my feet. I concentrate on the floorboards: one, two, three. I know that the plain floor of the stage is what I'm looking at, so why can I still see his damn knife piercing her over and over again? Why is that the image that stays with me, after all of the horrors that I saw? It shouldn't be killing me like this.

I stare resolutely at the ground, counting the seconds as the Career's glossy dialogue draws on. Surely his interview has to end sometime.

"You met with him more than once, didn't you?" Amelia presses, and I could hit her. Suddenly, I want to. I want to stand up in front of Panem and smash this chair at her, break her until she understands why it's not a joke to present this bastard in front of me just to get a reaction.

I'm forced to look up, meet her eyes with mine, and I can feel rage in my veins, cold enough to take my breath away.

But there's nothing to say to her. I can't think of anything that I could say that would fix this, avenge Coral. I don't even know what to say to get rid of this slow, cold pit opening up inside of me. I could yell and scream and tell her and the Capitol to go to hell, but it wouldn't change a thing.

"He killed Coral. He stabbed me. Roe cut him enough that he left us alone." It's a clinical report. I don't know what else to give her. The part of me that would be able to set her straight is still back in the arena somewhere.

And, mercifully, his interview comes to a close and the scene cuts to a huge screen, one that dominates the side of one of the bigger buildings somewhere else in the Capitol metropolis. I don't get it for a second, but then I see the list of tribute names and head shots accompanied by bright numbers. Thom Greene, 6. Harper Fallow, 3. Lea Monty, 9. Coral White, 10. Arden Wade, 7. Training scores. I recognize the pictures to the side of the names; they're the same ones that were used each night in the arena to announce a tribute's death. I skip over Roe and Coral, stopping to look at my own picture, the only one that wasn't displayed in the arena sky. I don't remember them taking this, but here I am, staring resolutely at the camera.

Directly across from my name, on the other side of the billboard of training scores, is a face that I've never really seen, but is so achingly familiar that my heart breaks.

_This, _I think, _is how they're going to undo me._

She smiles at me, bouncy blonde curls framing her face. Her eyes are wide, innocent.

_Her eyes were green._

Her smile, exactly as I'd imagined it, is seared into my mind before I can even blink.

Beneath her picture are a few words, her obituary.

_Day Fischer. District 11. Age 12. 29__th__ Hunger Games. Final 22._

I scan the words hungrily, looking for more of her even though I know it's killing me. She made it to the final 22, which just makes her another bloodbath tribute.

She looks so alive, so carefree even though she must have known she was headed to her death. The expression in her eyes is vital, so strong I can't believe that it was extinguished. She looks too _real _to be dead.

But that's the same thing I thought about Coral, and then Roe. And they're both gone. If there's anything I've learned, it's that life is fragile. Not in the way that people sigh at funerals, that "life is so short." That makes it sound brief, unspectacular, and worthless. Put it that way, and it doesn't sound like it's worth fighting for. It doesn't even sound possible. But that's not quite right. It's short and easy to lose, but it's the strongest, brightest thing I know of.

I tear my eyes away, because my stomach is rolling and I have to swallow hard just to get a breath past my choked throat.

My eyes skate over the list, and I understand. These are the voices in each tribute's head, put on display for the entirety of Panem to see. There are a couple of scrawny faces, with places like the "Final 18" and 14. Then there's a Career by Ray's name, who made it to the final 2. A girl with a silky bob is next to Greene, a victim of the 68th Hunger Games who lasted to the final 10. The only other young tribute is a 13 year old boy paired up with the Career that killed Coral, and he has scared eyes and a bloodbath ending.

Coral's voice is that of a Career from District 1. I wonder how much she listened to him. If he helped her make her kills. If he was the one that made her lose it, just a little.

Roe has a face and name next to her as well, but I know that's bull. She told me herself that she didn't have a voice, due to her hasty entrance in the Games. Now I understand why Roe's interview and chariot ride weren't featured in the Recaps, because that footage wasn't of her. The Capitol doesn't want to show footage of another girl, however similar in appearance she may be, because it would be very easy for an audience member to figure out that the two girls weren't the same person.

Onscreen, a Capitol audience from the past mills around the billboard, prodding one another and calling out numbers. Slowly, I realize what's going on. This is the epicenter of Capitol betting, and that's why the profiles of the voices are beside the profiles of the tributes. According to the nurse from my recovery, the audience believes that the voices were actually programs from the Capitol modeled on the personalities of tributes from the past. But they still must have thought that the type of program would affect the quality of advice given to the tribute. Even that would affect betting odds.

It's disgusting, even after all of this. I know that these people thought that the voices were only programs, but I hate watching them analyze the profiles of the voices and deciding whether or not to place more or less money on a tribute because of it. Coral, a Career with a Career's voice for a mentor, must have had great odds. They must have thought I, on the other hand, was hampered by a twelve year old girl's voice.

It didn't even matter what the programs said, in the end. It was all for shock value, and for the pleasure of watching tributes go insane because they were hearing voices in their heads. It mattered to the pockets of Capitol citizens who wanted to try their hand at betting on tributes. But the voices could have said anything at all, and the results would have been the same. The Capitol never would have known or cared about the people behind the voices. I can't imagine Day not mattering to these people when she meant so much to me. But here she is, up on this screen, while bettors write her off because of her age and how quickly she died. Not one of them is even considering that maybe she had something worthwhile to say.

"A 7! A 7 for District 7," Amelia pipes, startling me. I'm still staring at Day's picture, drinking her in. "Now, can you enlighten us on how you got that score?"

I remember dodging this question before, when I was playing the role of a much quieter tribute. That was before they thought I had a story to tell.

"Uh," I start, and have to swallow past the dry rasp in my throat that forms every time I look at Day's picture up on the screen. I can't stop looking at it. "I'm pretty handy with an axe. It comes with the territory." I notice that I've wrung my hands together in my lap, but I make no effort to put them back on the arm rests where they belong.

Amelia is always smiling. "What about some of your allies? I know you didn't get to see these scores before the Games because of the Quell theme, but do they surprise you now?" I don't know why she's so interested with Roe and Coral, but I assume that it's because our alliance was a big hit with the Capitol audience. They must have gotten a kick out of seeing them get picked off one at a time.

"Uh. Coral's doesn't surprise me. She was from District 4, after all." She didn't act like a Career, but I'm sure she trained like one.

The light focuses on me, urging me to keep going.

"And Roe," I say, pausing to look at her score. It's a five, but it wasn't even Roe who got that score. At this point, the original District 11 tribute was still alive, so it would be her score. "I don't know what she did to get that," I finish lamely, but Amelia looks relieved just to have me speaking. I wonder, suddenly, if she knows the truth about Roe - about anything that goes on behind the scenes in the Hunger Games. Maybe she's as innocent and clueless as she looks. Looking at her wide eyes, perked with just the right amount of interest, I don't think that whoever was in charge of the switch would let her in on it. She just doesn't look cunning enough to keep a secret like that. I hope that I'm right – it's easier to talk to her when I think that she wasn't a part of sending Roe to her death.

_Roe is dead. Coral is dead. Day is dead._

I have to remind myself of it, point-blank, and the words still don't fit together in my head.

"As I recall, she lived up to that score and more," Amelia adds, and her voice is as close to respectful as I assume it will get all night. I wonder what exactly she considers worthy. Maybe the time she scratched that Career's arm enough that he had to leave us alone. That was brave.

I wonder if that counts to the Capitol audience, when it obviously doesn't to the Gamemakers that hold our lives in their hands. If her courage was worth something, she wouldn't be dead right now. Half the tributes wouldn't be.

The screen changes again, abandoning the scoreboard and bettors to swoop, cinematic, away from the Capitol square and over a train track that cuts a path through a swathe of wilderness. I'm confused for a moment, but then I see the train chugging dutifully along, painted with the Capitol insignia, I realize that this is the train that took us to the arena. Or, at least, this is reused footage from some other year, because I can still remember the grinding crunch of the train as it derailed and was wrenched into twisted scraps of metal.

The screen goes black, and everyone in the audience holds their breath. This is dramatic impact, I know, to increase suspense before the arena is revealed onscreen. But instead I see the lights flickering and dimming on the train, right before the collision registered. Then the first death of the Hunger Games, the young Peacekeeper who died with a splinter of wood – a _chair leg _– through his neck, because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He died with his eyes open, blood seeping between his lips.

Then the District 11 girl, the one whose place Roe took, curled up on the floor of the center aisle in a tiny ball that didn't look human. She looked like a couple of rags tied together, utterly forgettable. They probably couldn't even ship her back home. After all, her family would recognize that it wasn't her.

I don't want to think too hard about her family. To the Capitol, they would have been dangerous. When they realized that it was not their daughter in the Hunger Games, they could have told someone. The Capitol would not have allowed that.

The ambient spotlights around the Square are suddenly cut off, and the Capitol audience takes a collective gasp as they are plunged into the relative darkness of the dusk air. Before I have time to wonder whether I'm in danger, or what is happening, the lights are suddenly back on with dizzying force. Then the screen lights up as well, pivoting around the golden horn of the Cornucopia to the spider web of gleaming wires that made up the arena.

The audience screams and cheers below, stunned again by the arena of twisted wires and platforms. They're looking at the dazzling gold, at the sheer expanse of burnished metal that is unlike any arena they've seen before. But I've gone rigid, glued to my seat by the wave of apprehension that's as fresh as it was the day the Games started. I know it's all over, and that there's nothing I can do to change what happened, but I'm still thinking about the blood that's about to be spilled.

The countdown starts, inexorable.

_3…_

_2…_

_1…_

The gong sounds, leaving me cringing in my seat like it's happening all over again.


	34. Chapter 34

**First of all, I have to apologize. It has been a long, long time since I last updated. A ridiculously long time. But as you can see from the length of this chapter, I have been doing something this whole time, but it came in little snatches. Honestly, this is a waste of 10,000 words, and if I was writing this for something other than fanfiction, I would omit this completely. It's basically just filler. ^^; However, because I wrote a detailed description of the events in the Recaps before the Games, I had to write a detailed description of the arena events as well. I apologize for this monster. It's not even properly proofread, but I had to publish it now or forfeit my sanity. At least now I can write the final chapter, which will be much more interesting than this one, I assure you. ;) Forgive me for the useless filler.**

The gong goes off onscreen, signaling the start of the Hunger Games, but it doesn't sound like the beginning of something – it sounds like the end. The hum from the gong hangs in my ears for a long moment, and I can feel the dread turning over in my stomach. I don't want to see this.

There is a second's pause as the tributes look out, dumbfounded, at the expanse of golden wire stretched out before them. I can feel each of their heartbeats, hammering in my head and demanding release. In that moment, the arena is clean. For those few seconds, as everyone stands rigid, there are still 24 breathing tributes. Blood hasn't replaced innocence in the air. It is now that the Hunger Games seem most impossible. It would be so easy for each of the tributes to stay on their platforms and end the insanity before it started. It seems wholly possible that the tributes could just shake their heads and decide to call it a day. I can see in my imagination the tributes stepping backwards off of their plates, back to the safety of the loading area, to shake hands with each other and return home. Maybe it could all be just a game, to be played at the discretion of the tributes.

But no. One tribute takes shuffling, daring steps from his platform and the bloodbath begins.

Because this is the bloodbath, it isn't my story being told. This segment is for the gratuitous gore, played up for the eyes of the Capitol people. Now that 23 tributes lie in their graves, it doesn't have to be about the District viewers. The Hunger Games have already done their job for another year.

The Careers, predictably, are the first to haul themselves out over the wires. Now I know some of their names – Camden Alexander and Lea Monty pull themselves delicately forward, leading the way to the Cornucopia. I strain for a glance of Coral, suspecting that she's probably in on the action even if she wasn't "your typical Career." Even now I'm looking for her, even though I know that when I see her it will be with memories of blood staining her skin.

The camera swivels to her as she hesitates for just a second longer and plunges out across the wires. She is swift and poised, a Career in appearance if not in actuality. She reaches the huge Cornucopia platform not long after they do, and they send her quick nods before returning to scuttling about the supplies. At first glance, they must assume that she is one of them. I realize that I don't know whether she spent any time with them in the early stages of the Games, before hooking up with Roe.

She slings packs over her shoulders without checking them first. Then, discreetly, she slips the curved blade into one of them. Her furtive looks at the others convinces me then that she was never on their side. Her next target is a stocky, flat blade that I recognize with a sickening start. It's the same one that killed her and injured me. I can already see the blood slicking it up to the hilt. _He stabbed her over and over again._

The other Careers form a wary coalition, unsure of who is to be trusted. They exchange names and districts quickly, forced to accept one even though they have never met. They square off against approaching tributes, who struggle uncertainly across the wires. There are the deaths of the two tributes from 6, who pull each other off of the wire in a desperate attempt to save themselves. Then, as the Careers are distracted, Coral makes her first kill.

With one decisive moment, she plunges the stocky knife – the same one that would kill her – into the back of the male tribute that I presume to be her district partner. I thought it strange that two Careers would die in the bloodbath, and now I know why. Coral was knocking them off before they could even be a threat to her.

He screams and clutches at the air before bending sharply at the waist, convulsing before he hits the ground. I wonder if Coral had considered how to kill him before she did – that the best way would be through the spine, ending him in one easy motion. From his backside, where there was no possibility of retaliation.

The Careers round on her, screeching, but she is already gone, bounding across the platform with a pair of handcuffs around one wrist. She is the first to figure out their use, and the Careers watch with burning eyes as she slides easily across her route to escape. A few of them scramble for long distance weapons in their arsenal, but by the time they are taking aim she is long gone.

I am not sure if this changes her in my eyes. That's two tributes I know for sure that she killed, without flinching, but I can still remember the way she explained it to me – that she did what it took to win the game. And I knew her well enough to know that she was a good person, not a monster like the rest of these Careers. Maybe I'm just avoiding the truth of the matter because I respected her, liked her, but I can't decide whether a kill automatically makes a person an animal. If so, then I have more than one death to incriminate me.

The rest of the bloodbath is a whirlwind of shots, every death splayed out across the screen. I kill Lea Monty again for the whole world to see, letting her slip and watching numbly as her blonde hair spirals out behind her.

After Coral's betrayal, the remaining tributes grow nervous and begin to turn back, obviously weighing their lives against the supplies hanging, neatly bundled, closer to the Cornucopia. Two of the remaining three Careers give chase, cornering the tributes with sickly sweet satisfaction. The District 1 girl traps both of the skinny kids from 12, one at a time, and delights in literally severing the head of one of them, a gruesome sight that I have to look away from. She laughs as clotted blood forms clumps in her long, long brown hair. The Capitol audience erupts into excited chatter as one of their apparent favorites chases down the other Twelve and breaks each of his wrists before slitting him from chin to abdomen, all the while hanging gracefully from her wire.

I decide then that that is what a monster is.

The crowd grows restless when those two kills are over, eager for the rest of the bloodbath to be displayed. I look away, fighting the illness in my gut and the desire to stare at the floor for the rest of the Recaps. It feels like the first interview all over again; I know I have to look strong, but I can't even make myself look at the damn screen.

There is an audible slicing noise, and my head jerks up, pulled by a puppet string.

The noise was clearly enhanced by the Capitol for the audience's benefit, but it still makes a gruesome scene as the girl from 8 stares at the camera screen, eyes popped wide, with her throat gaping open. Her mouth twitches, trying to open, and I am struck by the mirror image of the gaping holes in her throat and between her lips as she exhales once, and the Career lets her fall.

He turns to face the camera, and my blood goes cold.

His light brown hair is ruffled about his face, framing smooth skin and straight, white teeth. He looks utterly normal as he looks out over the crowd, his expression calm. Almost nonchalant. But the thing that gets me is his stare. His eyes are dead even then, as he releases the young girl's shoulders and watches her fall.

Bile rises in my throat. I can feel the flames devouring my skin.

_How was Day still screaming?_

He goes back to the other two Careers, the job done. He is still utterly detached as he nods to the others and calmly wipes the blood from his hands onto the leg of his pants. I'm reeling, sick, and I can remember the stars splayed out above me as I laid in the sand, losing myself out of the chasm he opened in my stomach. I remember waiting for him to set me on fire.

There's something truly sick about that memory, even in this newly minted body. The flames are in the past now, but I swear I can still feel them. And Day, how she just _screamed. _

The camera disregards this, cutting away from the bloodbath and onward to bigger things.

The rest of my first day in the arena was uneventful, so the screen blurs to night and the Capitol anthem. The camera takes snapshots of some of the tributes as we all gaze simultaneously to the sky. Coral is on her own, rummaging through her bags and smiling a ghost's smile as the anthem announces itself. Roe sits, huddled by herself in the crook of a tree limb, and makes her first appearance of the Games. Her eyes flit in the general direction of the camera lens, and at that moment I miss her so strongly that it hits me like a blow. I've been dealing with Coral's death all night, but this I am unprepared for. Their ghosts plague me now, yanking carelessly on the threads that hold me together. I was _so close. _Roe slipped only a foot or so from my grasp, and Coral died as I turned and ran.

I just can't do this anymore.

I bury my head in my hands, breathing as steadily as I can. I miss the report at the end of Day 1 and I'm beginning to think that I should stay like this forever when the sounds of a scuffle alert me enough that I look up. Sure enough, Ray and Greene have just knocked me out of my tree perch and I'm clutching my broken arm. Those two must have been an alliance right out of the gate to find me this quickly. I wonder if they just made eye contact and decided, hey, he's trustworthy.

I remember the paralyzing fear as they stood over me, brandishing their tiny knife. I was sure that I was dead. Now, after everything else, I almost wish they had killed me then. The horrors after I escaped them were far worse than what I imagined death on the end of their blade would be.

The Gamemakers have decided that my time with Ray and Greene is not interesting enough to take up much time, so the camera presents a reel of highlights. We see Coral kill the auburn-haired girl again as our pathetic alliance hides in the tree, and the camera pays special attention to Greene's monologue with the voice in his head. This is the stuff the Capitol audience eats up; a tribute come unhinged because of the havoc their scientists have wreaked in his head. Ray snaps at him to cut it out and darkness falls on Day 2. The Capitol banner displays only one death that night, the girl with auburn hair that Coral killed. I can feel the audience growing restless again, dissatisfied with the sluggish events.

My disastrous escape from Ray and Greene is glossed over just enough to remind the audience that it happened, and the focus of the recaps transitions to my supposedly triumphant return to the forefront of the Games. I am shown trekking through the thickest parts of the platform I fled to and eventually setting up camp in the shadow of a few sturdy trees. For a few moments, I am finally the tribute who has everything together.

But the Games are never far from drama, so as the sky darkens rapidly in the camera's eye I can predict how they will play up the next scene. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, looking for some way to escape into myself before I have to relive this.

The temperature plummets, and my little efforts to make a camp are quickly diminished to sitting on the ground and shivering harder and harder as night falls. Cold was the enemy then. With the memory of fire crawling on my skin, I'm not sure which extreme is the worst now.

I know what's coming next, and my pulse rockets faster with anxiety. I'm not sure how much time passed between when I gave up on making camp and the cannons sounded, but I'm sure the Capitol editors didn't want to waste much time in their three hour slot on me sitting and shaking. Sure enough, the camera begins to skip forward, and the frame switches to focus on Ray and Greene, still on my old platform with the fruit tree. They look idle, sitting silently beneath the twisted tree limbs, but not for long. The Career pack springs across the wires, looking mildly annoyed at being exposed as they are, and in seconds they are on the pair.

I wasn't expecting to have to watch this. I remember wincing at Greene's scream in the arena, but I was too caught up in the notion of how close the Career pack was to really care. Now it's strung out in front of my eyes, classy Capitol gore for all of these eyes to feast on. Ray goes first, quietly, with a grim expression and knife flashing in his one free hand. He's gone without much of a show, and all of my hatred for him feels insignificant as he disappears under two burly Careers.

Greene tries to run, and I wish I didn't feel anything, but I do. I might have liked him, under different circumstances - if he didn't have a voice driving him mad, and I didn't either, and we weren't set to kill each other. The camera swivels to his face, interested only in capturing the stark, sick terror in his eyes. One of the Careers actually sticks out a leg to trip him – like he's a bully, and this is nothing more than some middle school rivalry – and as Greene goes down all of the Careers stop for a moment to watch him squirm. Then the bastard that killed Coral calmly plants one boot on Greene's back and drives his long knife slowly into the center of his torso, all the way to the dirt beneath.

Intentionally, the aim isn't good enough to kill him instantly. It takes Greene a very long time to die.

I feel like I'm drowning, but then Amelia, long forgotten, pipes up. It's like my head is breaking the surface. If nothing else, she is a distraction, something to cling to. This situation is so turned around that I can find solace even in her.

"Were you glad to find out that they had been killed, after they'd trapped you for so long?" Amelia turns her big eyes on me, and I swear they're like poison, eating me from the inside. I don't know what the right answer is here. The truth is that I had been too alarmed by the Career pack to think much about it. So now the choice is between offending their families and looking like a monster, or appealing to these people who have their own ideas about death.

"The way they killed Greene was terrible," I say hesitantly. A half-answer. "They weren't much of a threat, really." My voice sounds too loud in the microphone after all of this silence. Everyone has been too wrapped up in the Games to care much about what I have to say.

"And their cannons warned you about the Careers, right?" She prompts easily.

"Yeah," I say slowly. Guilt, unadulterated and hot, burns in my veins as I remember what happened after I ran. I can see it light up in Amelia's eyes, and the anticipation builds in the crowd around me.

_Harper Fallow. Her name was Harper Fallow._

I want to scream it at them, but they are rapt, watching the screen as the cameras follow my crazed dash away from the edge of the platform. I stumble, pathetic, as the snow comes crashing down around me. My steps zigzag, too panicked to focus on the best course away from the danger. I am sick with anger and shame, wishing I could turn things around and change everything; that this flight could end in a better place.

The tree branch is heavy in my hands as I run. I don't know why I didn't drop it. Why didn't I drop it? Self defense is the obvious answer, but it seems too large to carry with any efficiency. It would have made so much more sense to just leave it behind.

I look down as the flickering, tiny fire appears onscreen, and Harper Fallow's silhouette is pictured by its edge. I do not watch as I stagger toward her, convinced that she is a danger with that tiny little knife clutched in her fist like a safety blanket. I am half out of my mind, freezing and so immersed in fear that I do not recognize that my actions are wrong. But those are not good enough excuses.

When my branch cracks against her skull, I can _hear _it. It resonates from the screen, washing sickness and horror over me even though I am looking away.

I killed her. I killed that girl.

I don't know what interest the Capitol gets out of it, but the next segment of the video is of me, sitting by her tiny fire and watching snowflakes settle on both of us. Then I move her closer in a feeble attempt to warm her up. It's cold, cold. More snow falls. The cameras have painted a dreary picture, but the audience latches onto it with eager eyes. Despite their bloodlust, they seem riveted by my seeming change of heart. Trying to save her was the only good thing I did in the arena – maybe they are human enough to care about that.

Of course, my efforts fail. Her cannon sounds and I leave her to be passed on, from the claw of the hovercraft to the Capitol workers and her own grieving family, then the ground. She's stone cold somewhere else, suffocating under layers of dirt.

As if bashing her skull in wasn't enough, I take her supplies and creep away from the scene. For just a moment there is an in-between time, when no painful scene is taking place onscreen. I take a second to breathe, to try to slow my heart rate just a bit so that the stage lights around me don't feel so much like walls pressing in.

But then Amelia's chin angles toward me, warning me that there is yet another question to come. It seems like a fair play – a question for every important event, but no more. And as her perfect golden lips part, I'd like to think that this is a game we both play, that she's only asking these questions because the Capitol demands it, not because she enjoys digging the knife in and twisting it as far as it will go without killing me.

I know it's not true as her bright eyes land on mine, but it makes it easier to think that way.

"The District 6 girl, right?" She begins tentatively, leading me in.

"Harper Fallow," I reply quickly, determined that if nothing else, these people get her name right.

Something folds in inside me, and I have to struggle to keep myself afloat. What does her name even matter? She's rotting, skin graying and crumbling as the world turns, carrying her with it. Whatever made her who she was has disappeared, leaving a cold shell and no fourteen year old girl to have any say in it. Who are we to have any hopes of a soul, something that carries her thoughts when she has nowhere else to go? She's dead. The end.

And these people don't care.

"What happened that night?" She asks me softly, an investigator playing the good cop.

"You just saw it, didn't you?" I snap, raking one hand through the once-ragged ends of my hair. Damnit. Coral's dead fingers cut them off, fingers now too stiff with rigor mortis and decay to help me. And I can't think of her that way. My brain won't make the connection. I just grieve, pretending that I can keep her alive, somehow, just by safeguarding her memory.

"I hit her. She died," I hiss. _The end._

Amelia nods, and I don't think she's unnerved by my answer, but she doesn't say anything else. The silence lasts for a second too long and suddenly I'm scrambling, regretful. I sound cold, no better than a Career. Don't they just understand that can't just keep opening old wounds, though? I can't handle it.

"I was confused," I amend. "And cold." The excuses sound lame and fake, even to me. "I didn't know who she was."

Everyone is looking at me, every pair of eyes in this place waiting for me to say. Waiting for me to make some closure for this, lay it to rest nicely with the rest of my damn memories.

"Look, I will never forgive myself," I snarl, and I can tell that the fierce tone has caught them, forced them to pay attention. "There is nothing, _nothing _that can make up for that." I fall silent, allowing them to process that. To them, she wasn't important enough to grace more than a few seconds on. But I don't want them to forgive themselves that easily for watching her die with smiles on their faces.

I am not enough to make a difference. My words go unheralded and the clips race onward, making no allowances for what I want these Capitol people to hear. The arena gets warmer, I trudge across the platform, and then the camera cuts away from me.

There is suddenly a mass of tangled golden hair taking up the camera frame, and it shifts to get a better look at the tribute crouching in the trees. She holds an achingly familiar curved blade and nods once to a smaller figure that is hiding, nearly invisible, a few feet away.

My stomach drops out from under me and I just want to bury myself rather than go through this again.

"Well, he found us," Coral speaks up and steps out of the trees.

I am so sick of being forced to watch these ghosts and grieve in circles, and I am close to just burying my head in my hands and daring Amelia to try and lure me back into this interview. But there's a strange draw to the screen, and as horrible as it is, I keep looking back at it. They may be ghosts onscreen, but I am still greedy for something more of the people I lost. I don't want to waste the opportunity to see them just one last time. This is the only closure I will ever get.

And so I watch, a spellbound captive of my own past. It's funny that something as truly horrific as the Hunger Games still makes me grieve, not only because of what happened, but because I would give anything to be able to go back and change things. I am desperate to go back to those days, when Roe and Coral were still alive and I still had the power to do something about it.

Coral and I fight – or rather, I stumble away from her while that blade of hers flashes in the air between us. I remember the fear rushing, delirious, through my veins as I remembered that she was a Career. Even without a pack, she was deadly. It could have been over then.

But no. Because she was Coral, she changes her mind. She decides she likes me, for whatever reason, and drags me into the alliance that, if I'm honest, I was so easily sucked into because I was desperately lonely. Roe stares me down, cold, and informs me that she never wanted me in the alliance. Our pact is made – as long as I don't kill her in her sleep, she won't turn on me. I've almost forgotten that it started that way: two unwilling participants and then Coral, who was always the glue that held us together.

"Roe and Coral, huh?" Amelia introduces them, absolutely delighted in their appearances. "Not the best start to an alliance, but you seem to have a history of rocky alliances." She teases me playfully, and the crowd titters with scattered laughter. "How great is it to see them, folks?" She addresses the crowd, and they cheer wildly in response. We were a hit, us three. I wonder if they would feel the same if Coral were to come out, or Roe, and the other two were in body bags. I don't doubt it; they watch the screen with glassy eyes, too easily manipulated.

"Tell me, Arden, what where you thinking when you guys hooked up?" Her eyelashes flutter as she looks at me.

"I was thinking that I didn't have much of a choice." I blurt out the first thing I think, remembering Coral's insistence that I join them. Remembering her fingers around my wrist.

Amelia laughs - a tinkling laugh, head thrown back and everything, and the crowd follows suit. "Coral was quite demanding, wasn't she? But it worked out quite well in the end." I nod mutely, but I'm thinking that it didn't; not for her. She probably would have been better off on her own. Then maybe she'd be sitting here.

Our newly born alliance settles down for the night, around Coral's crackling fire. The Recaps skip over the faces in the sky, dismissing the guilt I still feel for the death of Harper Fallow. Instead, it cuts straight to Roe, Coral, and I around the fire. Coral slips off to bed, and in the silence between us, I can't help but think that we are finally a complete alliance. By this time, I even cared about Day. We were more than an alliance – we were all best friends.

Day's absence hits me sharply. Not just in the holes in my own head, but in the video playing on the screen. She has not been mentioned once, aside from her statistics on the betting board in the Capitol. It's so wrong that my heart lurches with the idea of it – that she could be set aside so easily. To the audience, Day was insignificant, worthless when she hadn't driven me to madness. But to me, she was everything. She was with me every step of the way, and was as much a Victor as I was. She should be up here now with me.

How much have I already forgotten? How many of her words are already gone? I am the only one in the world who really knew she was even here. I have a responsibility to let them know what they have done. Who they have killed. Their propaganda about the voices being nothing more than programs is all a lie. I would never fall so deeply for words the Capitol fed me.

"Arden?" Amelia prompts me, stirring me back to attention. She's looking at me quizzically, and I know I've missed something. Well, it's not my fault that she's got me so thoroughly stuck in the past.

"Uh…" I begin, guessing wildly. I figure it's something to do with Coral and Roe, though, so I just comment on them again. All she seems to want to do is get me talking.

"Roe wasn't too pleased with me at first," I remark, and she doesn't look confused, so I assume my answer wasn't too off base.

The crowd laughs, utterly enamored with the stony-eyed girl onscreen that always had her lip caught between her teeth.

Morning breaks with a bang onscreen, first with the streaks of red and yellow across the sky and then Coral's wild mane as she prods the back of my head with her toe. I spring up, the crowd's comic relief as I look about wildly, as if I'm being ambushed. Coral laughs too, her voice weaving seamlessly with the Capitol's.

Coral announces her daring plan to cross platforms in search of the oasis, possibly straight into the heart of Career territory. I go along with it, weak willed when I weigh the benefits of having an alliance against charging straight up to the Careers and offering myself to them all for a bit of water. Now that I know the outcome, though, I don't feel so tense. This journey, at least, ends happily. Heartbreaking to watch, maybe, but only because I miss it so badly.

We arrive at the oasis unharmed and Coral dives right in, sending a thousand shattered water drops into the air. Roe and I hang back, casting each other tense, untrusting glances, until Coral yanks first Roe, then me, into the water.

The scene turns sickly sweet as we splash each other playfully. Coral cuts my hair and I creep up on Roe to splash her, and she in turn catches and dunks me. We're normal people again in the pure sunlight, giggling like idiots and ignoring the fact that our deaths are right around the corner. But for those few moments, it's ok.

The audience is smiling right along with the clap, lulled into contentment just from watching us play. I'm baffled as I watch them – if they're so easily won over by something this cheesy, why do they cheer every time another child is killed in their Hunger Games? It doesn't make any sense. There's a disconnect in their thinking, and somewhere in their bee hive mind they equate pleasure with both happiness _and _death.

The ice is officially broken between Roe and I, and Coral is just pleased that we can be one big, happy alliance like she had imagined.

Now it's time for my stomach to turn over in anticipation, because after that little display of happiness I know what is coming next. The Capitol may have been sated on our fun, but the Gamemakers weren't. We had to be punished for those small seconds of relief.

Coral and Roe argued that night, Roe tight-lipped and full of secrets. I remember what happened; Roe came to me, frustrated, and tried to spill that maybe, just maybe, she was being targeted by the Capitol because she - and then she was cut off. Now, with the past fresh in my mind, I realize what she was trying to tell me. She was trying to remind me that she wasn't really the proper tribute from District 11, and that the Capitol had always planned for her to die in the bloodbath, before she could do any damage. If they were still determined to get rid of her, we could be in danger. In hindsight, that was exactly why that night happened the way it did. They had decided to silence her then and there.

But this clip skips all of that. Instead, it opens with our hands clamped over our ears while a mechanic shriek wails across the arena. This was such a simple way of herding us toward the Careers that I almost can't believe that it worked, but we fell for it, moving away from our platform because Coral was certain that that was what the Gamemakers wanted us to do. She never wanted to get on their bad side, but it didn't help her in the end.

Coral drags us from the Oasis, though at the time I wasn't sure it was the right choice. Now I know that it wasn't, but the Gamemakers probably would have done something even worse to move us if we hadn't fled then.

So we run, packs bumping on our shoulders. The shriek grows quieter, dimmed by distance, and I know Coral was right to think that we were supposed to leave our Oasis to please the Gamemakers. Roe struggles behind us, so I drop back to help her – a rookie mistake, given her pride.

She looks at me, eyes widening, and the Career slams into me hard enough to knock me to the ground. He has his fingers around my throat before I can finish my lurching gasp of surprise. I can hear Day's shriek of surprise in my head, resurfacing despite how hard I have tried to forget it.

Onscreen, I am convinced that I am going to die. Now I am disgusted with the way I lied there, struggling against my own qualms with death instead of doing something about him. The monster choking me is the same one that drove his knife into Coral over and over again. If only I had been able to get it together and kill him then, Coral might not be dead.

It's a useless thought and I know it, but I like to pretend that it could be true. For Coral to be alive I would have to be dead, and I'm not sure I'm ready to make that trade, even now. In the aftermath of the Games, though, I figure I have the liberty to wish for something as improbable as a happy ending.

Coral saves, pulling the bastard off of me with a few quick flicks of her dagger. I will never be able to repay her.

Her next victim is the muscled Career girl from 1, and her dagger goes down her back in a long, deliberate motion. It's only now, when this screen is played up to sate the Capitol bloodlust, that I realize how much of a Career Coral was.

Battered and unsteady, I climb to my feet, in legitimate shock from the recent events. I can't gather my thoughts as blood from some other source spatters my jacket sleeve and the mechanic squeal continues to drown out everything.

The camera angle whirls toward Roe, who is running desperately from another Career, pin wheeling at the air as he draws closer and finally hooks her feet out from her. She claws and screams as she goes down hard, an animal who has finally realized the trap that it is in. He crouches swiftly, drawing the knife up to her neck, and the screen finally reveals his face.

I've seen him enough times now that his appearance doesn't make me want to throw up, but fire still burns in my blood at the mere sight of his face. His features, as usual, are dead, and more dangerous than a manic Career could ever be. He is not the same monster that Coral's killer is, though, because he didn't hurt her or Roe. Just me. And Day. The sight of him makes me acutely uncomfortable, like I'm crawling in new skin, reborn from fire and not entirely myself.

The screech cuts off all at once, to be replaced with the lulling anthem of the Capitol as the seal lights the sky. Everything is suddenly very quiet, and the sounds of battle are suddenly magnified to a ridiculous extent. Exaggerated grunts and breaths, raised to be heard over the shriek, are suddenly out of place. Roe screams, writhing under the Career, and looks almost surprised by the power of her own lungs.

This is what drags me out of my trance as the Capitol audience titters and gasps beneath me. Suddenly they can be heard, too. But I don't have to worry about questions now: everyone is all rapt, more consumed by these action scenes than they could ever be by my empty words.

No kills are announced, but that could change very quickly.

Coral springs back to life, momentarily stunned by the quiet, and dives towards Roe. She shoves the Career off of her and deftly sends her blade through his arm. He staggers back and she pulls her blade out cleanly. It's a wound that never really slowed him down. I didn't even notice it when he was coming after me with that mace of his.

Roe pulls herself free, visibly shaking, and I can see gratitude painted in her eyes. Coral has saved both of us within a few seconds.

"Run!" Coral screams, yanking on Roe's and ushering wildly for me to follow. Then we run, stumbling for a moment but eventually hitting a stride fueled with the pure energy of the life that was almost stripped from us. We are mindless, as much a pack as those Careers. All of our focus is on the movement in our legs, fear driving us forward like we're prey.

The sky opens up above us, ominous, the perfect setting for the torture the Gamemakers had planned. Rain pelts down to our bones, drenching us in a matter of heartbeats. In this version of the Games there is lightning flickering in a bruised sky, something I missed the first time around. It is so, so dark.

We come to the edge of the platform. I think that we could fly off of it, strain our necks a little and just take off. But Coral grinds us all to a halt, suppressing the wildness singing in our blood. "Handcuffs," she orders, all business, and tosses me a pair. I know what's coming next, and so do they, but the audience still lets off a round of gasps when it is revealed that we only have two handcuffs and three people that have to cross the wire. The camera shot hovers on the three of us staring at each other in disbelief, flattened by the vicious rain, euphoria from escape melting into despair.

Then the screen takes a new turn, blurring rapidly to the group of Careers, who have given chase and are stopping to breathe and regroup. Coral's killer looks unarmed, though I know Coral got him somewhere. The caramel, muscled girl is doubled over, at her limit. Blood stains her back, and I wonder how she made it for so long after that injury. The last Career takes charge, hauling the girl to her feet and snapping Coral's Career to attention. He gets up close to his face, breathing serious breaths between tight teeth. "You know what to do. Go around and meet them on the other side of wherever they're headed. You'll be able to stop them." His voice is detached, hardly fazed by the fight.

Coral's Career takes off running, lumbering through the forest platform like a beast. Then the other Career takes the girl and they move out, only a little slower, to follow our path. They planned this whole dance out. We may have had strength in numbers, but they outclassed us from the start. There was nowhere for us to run.

With only two pairs of handcuffs, one of us is going to have to go without. A heavy silence settles over us, uncomfortable. I try not to look at Roe, but we're all thinking the same thing – that she dropped the bag, so it makes sense that she would be the one to cross without them.

Roe accepts the burden. "So, let's do it," she snaps harshly, and I know she's trying to keep from displaying any emotion. I know that fear must have been strung along every nerve in her body as she stared us down. The sky unleashes more rain onto us, drowning us before we've even begun the descent. We stare at each other, a short-lived trio drenched to our cores, and our eyes meet before the staccato bursts of lightning die, leaving us to the shadows.

This is when I stop watching. This was the end of who we were, a turning point. Coral's death was already written in stone, Roe's was inevitable, and I'm not sure, but I'd probably already lost myself along the way.

The floorboards under my feet – Capitol wood, mahogany and glistening with the promise of clean soles, become my only life raft for the next two hours.

As our alliance flees across the wires in one of the darkest, most dramatic scenes of the Games, I try to ignore it. We are electrocuted, swaying from wires in the night as lightning crackles along our bodies instead of the sky. Coral saves me again, hauling me up from the wire when I'm too senseless and full of electricity to move. When we think we've finally found safety, the platform we've landed on shakes and crumbles so badly that we run again, to the desert platform it would all end on.

Coral throws a hard packed ball of damp sand and calls it a snowball. I launch one back, victorious when I think I've struck my target. She screams. His knife goes _in, out, in, out. _We turn and run, clinging to each other because we know no other way as Coral turns purple and bloated behind us.

A cannon fires, and I pretend not to notice because I am stone, but I am still cracking inside.

Amelia gently suggests more prompts to get me talking, but this time I am silent.

There is a problem with the Recaps, and it is not just that it is painful to see all of this again. It's not even that it's too much to digest a second time around. The Recaps sound like a promise: closure, they whisper, to see them _one last time. _If you can only set things right in your mind, you can put their ghosts to rest, it assures. Everything will make sense now. _You can say goodbye._

But I can't. There are too many people to hold on to. Coral is already dead onscreen and I've hardly had a chance to acknowledge her presence. I feel so anxious about what's coming next that I can't even find a decent way to bid Roe farewell. I've already forgotten the things Day said at each twist and turn, the way she cried and laughed. I'll never forget the sound of her voice, but I feel like I've already missed everything important.

And what's the point of trying to hold onto ghosts, anyway? I've pledged to myself – uselessly, maybe – that I will never be the Victor who throws my life away after trying so hard to keep it. I thought that I could file the ghosts away into neat little boxes, places where I could call up fond memories and keep them safe, and still live my life. But it seems that I will never be able to move on when they are burrowed so deeply within me, rehashed at every opportunity on Capitol screens.

I withdraw. I don't know what's better, forgetting or finding a way to make the memories bearable, but I know that there are some things I want to keep, like Coral's crazy smile or the way Roe always bit her lip or how Day tried to laugh things off even when they weren't ok. Maybe those other things are important, like the way Roe's hand was the last thing to disappear down that pit of quicksand or Day begged me to come find her even as the Career was lighting us on fire, and I'll even keep them, somewhere else, ready to be remembered when I think I can hold it together. When I think they'll teach me something.

The events onscreen become a list, and I am detached as the scenes roll by. My heart falters at all the right places, but I am still holding it together.

Roe and I run, and that bastard comes after us. He stabs me and Roe fends him off. By some miracle she cuts him deep enough that he feels the need to retreat, at least temporarily, back to the Career base. We receive our first parachute and I get patched up, at least a little. Then we make our tense little alliance official and settle down, eyeing the evening sky. Another day gone, and we still don't know how to cope.

It isn't until the night anthem plays that we are really shaken. We learn that the two cannons from earlier were both Careers, one of them the one that killed Coral. It's justice, I suppose, that he died so quickly after he killed Coral, but that doesn't make it hurt any less for anyone. That leaves exactly one Career left. The odds were good. If Roe hadn't died from that quicksand, we could have stood up to him, killed him, even. And then…and then…anything could have happened. It's so useless to wish things were different, though, because that would have left Roe and I in the final two. And for all the pain her death is still causing me, I'm not sure I could have given my life up for her. It could have easily ended with my blade right through her.

It's a mental image that doesn't sit well. I reject it, allowing myself to think idealistically for a second. Maybe I would have sacrificed myself for her, and she could have gotten out alive. She could have grown up, held herself together much better than I could.

And then…what? My mental image shatters again. That could never happen. That quicksand opened up under Roe because the Gamemakers had to kill her. They had already let her live for far too long, what with their failed assassination attempt that ended Coral instead of Roe. There was nowhere for Roe to go home to, anyway. She wasn't even the same girl that was reaped for District 11. Her life was an impossibility.

For some reason, this is much sadder than her death alone. How did she even keep fighting if she knew that there was no one for her to come home to?

_I know how we can both get out of the arena._

Maybe that's why she wanted to bring me along on whatever escape plan she had. Then, at least, there would be _someone. _Our bickering didn't really matter. At least I had been through the Games with her. If by some chance we had been able to get out, I would have understood what she had gone through.

But that's wishful thinking, because she's as dead as 22 other children tonight. The Hunger Games have one winner. No more. There are never any exceptions.

Amelia tries, tentatively, to bring up a few more questions. But I refuse to budge, even to her. She's not the enemy – not exactly – but I just want this to be over. We must be nearing the end.

In a characteristic Capitol plotline, the Recaps rush forward, hurtling headfirst toward the ending everyone is hungry to see. Roe and I have barely come to the conclusion that the final Career is hunting before the terrible windstorm brews up and blows over just as quickly. The cameras do not linger on Roe and I huddled in the sand and wind, barely visible to the cameras. This scene is cut out, but I can still remember the words that passed between us. That was the night that Roe told me her story, from her parents' rebellion and being left to rot in prison and how she became a tribute. I don't know if it is skipped over now because the Gamemakers truly couldn't hear what we were talking about over the howling wind, or whether such talk was just too rebellious to be included in the Recaps.

The next day, a cannon is our wake up call, and then Roe and I sit in the sand worrying about the Career and my wound, which is still bleeding. Onscreen, this morning is uneventful. But this is only because they have cut out my little speech, when I tried to make some justice out of Day's situation by announcing her to the world. I couldn't bear to let her pass so easily out of the world without letting people know that she had been here. But I clearly couldn't even do that, because it is absent from the Recaps, just like all other references to Day. Hell, I don't even know if my speech was aired during the original broadcast of the Games. Everything I ever did right in the arena has been forgotten at the Capitol's whims.

Afterward, Roe and I try to build sand castles, the only spot of comic relief since our time at the oasis. It's not long after that that Roe discovers the parachute buried under the sand and heads out to look for more. The camera shows her silhouette, far, far away from where I am standing. She ranges across the sand, desperate to find something more useful than the newspaper shreds we had already gotten.

The sun beats down on her, making her a place marker on the horizon, and the camera blacks out to transition to a new scene. Onscreen, the change is effortless, natural. But I know what they've cut out. The part where Roe ran toward me, breathless with escape plans, is gone. Of course, nothing that smacks of rebellion like that can be released for the whole Capitol to see. Instead, Roe announces hesitantly that we're in the final four. "That's a 25 percent chance," she informs me with a sad smile, and we both see how screwed up this situation is. I try to break off the alliance but she doesn't let me, and I remember feeling so relieved when she didn't walk away. It was wrong, but against everything, I didn't want her to leave. She walks off, but only to sit and think with her head in her hands 10 yards away from me. The distance is just enough, _just enough _to keep me from reaching her.

She yelps once, almost surprised. Then she screams my name.

The audience is tense below, holding tainted breath as they watch, all eyes lifted to the screen.

Roe thrashes wildly, up to her waist in the sucking quicksand. The editors have made these camera angles from her perspective, so I only get a quick shot of her terrified eyes before it's my face that turns, slowly realizing, to the camera.

I scramble up, obviously hindered by the wound in my side, desperate to reach her. She sinks farther, and there is another shot of her hands as they claw upwards. Her hands are brown, dusted with sand, and her fingernails have been rubbed raw by the flying sand. My heart breaks a little more, if there's anything left to break, watching her hands fly as I stagger too slowly towards her. I am only a few feet away when my side wrenches and I fall, slamming into the sand. She is nearly gone, but she makes one last effort, stretching half-dead fingers toward me as I drag myself forward.

Our eyes meet, and she disappears.

The crowd hoots and squeals, and I think I see a few people crying. They're disappointed because their favorite alliance has come to a sticky end, not because they miss Roe so fiercely that they will carry her with them for the rest of their lives. They don't have to blame themselves for her death. For falling like an idiot inches away from saving her.

I know why Roe's death does not feel like Coral's. Coral's was violent and horrifying, so bloody that there was no doubt that I would remember those moments forever. But Roe just slipped out of sight, only inches away from my outstretched fingers. It was too close to call, and I am still shouldering the hope that maybe something will change, and my hand will eventually reach hers. It's irrational, but in my mind, Roe is still hovering on the precipice between life and death.

But then there's something on the screen I haven't seen yet. Roe does not disappear cleanly from the cameras, snuffed out as easily as the flip of a switch. Instead she struggles against the air, like flying is an option, as her body plummets toward the invisible edge of the void below. Then it is her face the cameras close in on as she falls. She doesn't scream, but her eyes are clenched so tightly that she looks like a child, warding off nightmares. Her lips move, a whispered prayer, and the wind whips at her hair one last time.

The screen cuts to black all at once, an ending.

It is too sudden, too definite, for me to foster the tiny, irrational hope that made Roe less than dead in the back of my mind. And so Roe is dead, utterly and completely, and I hardly have time to catch my breath before the Recaps charge forward again, straining with eager, hungry jaws to reach the climax.

Without Roe, I am not purposeless, but I am close. There is no one left to protect apart from the girl in my head, so I sit and aimlessly rearrange my bag. A cannon sounds, putting Day and I definitively in the final two, and we slip into silent conversation. There is terrible, dangerous hope growing in both of us, and we suppress it by telling stories. I learn about Day's life, precious stories that I'm already starting to forget. Without her, and with her family long dead in the ground, I'm the only one left to carry their legacy, and I'm doing a pretty terrible job of it.

The closing of the Games becomes a reel of footage that switches back and forth between the Career and me as he draws closer. First there's a shot of his face, features dull as he treks across the sand, and then it's just his feet as he draws inevitably closer. Footsteps are strung out behind him, endless across the dunes.

Then he rises across the final dune between us and we stare at each other, a final showdown. The audience holds their breath as our eyes meet, and I know this is what they've been waiting for.

Our fight is not much of a fight. I wanted to protect Day so badly – enough to risk everything for her – but it wasn't enough. Because, in the end, I am not a Career, and Careers always win. Unless the Careers make a mistake like this – one that was a freak accident more than anything – there are no exceptions.

But even if I had been able to kill him before he hurt us, they still would have taken Day from me. Like everyone else in these Games, she was doomed to play by their expectations from the very beginning. She was never supposed to be allowed to live. In fact, they'd probably never given that idea a thought. There was nothing feasible about leaving a dead girl in a Victor's head. They probably considered that torture more than anything – why would they ever think that I loved her?

The Hunger Games have never ended like this before, so spectacularly, with two tributes poised to burn alive. The audience's impatience is palpable in the air around us as they all lean in a few inches, their breath hitching in their throats.

I bleed, and he strides around me, nonchalant. This part I can live with. At this point, Day and I were past the pain. There's nothing here for me to regret.

He brandishes the spray can, and the crowd goes quiet. They are still with anticipation.

Now I can see the things I missed before. There is a small, half smile on his face as he takes the matches – _my_ matches – from the bag. There's irony in that somewhere, but I'm too hollowed out with dread to decide whether or not he meant it that way. He spends a long moment looking at me, then lights the match. This, too, he looks at for a long moment, watching the flame burn perilously close to his fingertips.

In slow motion, he angles the nozzle of the spray can toward me and presses down without a second's hesitation.

There is fire, but something goes wrong. The match burns brighter for a moment, dancing in the presence of the gas, but doesn't seem to catch. And then it is catching too fast and heading in the wrong direction, racing towards the nozzle of the can.

The Career doesn't notice. His eyes are dead long before it reaches him.

It is not fire, but an explosion that is so bright it turns the arena and the screen a blinding white for a few heartbeats. It is only a single flash, but the roar is deafening enough to make me wince, even now.

The sound is cut off all at once, and eerie silence descends over the Capitol . I can hear hearts beating in tandem with mine as the flash clears and there are two writhing bodies onscreen. They are not people, just vessels for the flames that devour them, and I honestly can't recognize myself from the Career. In that moment there is nothing between us, and we are both nothing more than ashes that the fire is determined to make. Inexorable, it returns us to dust.

But I can remember the pain. If we were numb after the Career's first attack, we weren't then. The memory brings bile into my throat, and I have to clamp my fingers down on the armrests of my chair to keep from shaking. Day's last moments were filled with agony, _again, _and there was absolutely nothing I could do to make it better. We listened to each other die, and there I something truly sick about that. The bodies onscreen are reduced to something less than humanity; something that should be beneath humanity to inflict. But we burned alive, because we were made to play their hellish game. I know that there are supposed to be reasons for their Games, but watching the flames dance onscreen, I can't imagine them.

The screen darkens, but only for a moment before my name and face explode back onscreen. A voice I don't recognize pronounces me the winner, and there is standing ovation from the crowd. They are wild with excitement. This is an ending to their Games that they will never forget.

Amelia stands me before the crowd and I hear them chanting my name. The Hunger Games are over as the screen finally darkens to a close, but it still doesn't feel like the end.


	35. Chapter 35

**First of all, this chapter comes with a huge apology. I have not updated this story in three months, and there really is no excuse for that. I let you guys down and I let this whole story down. So, sorry. When I started writing this chapter, I went through a period of doubt about the ending itself, and whether or not I wanted to scrap the whole thing and start over. I was really indecisive about the whole thing, so you got a three month wait and a monster of a chapter coming in at 12,000 something words. But I figured it out and finally got it all written down, and this story is officially finished. :) I realize that a three month wait was a ridiculously long time, and that many of you may not even remember the last chapter, let alone care about how it ends. But I had to finish this story for me, and for the story itself. If you were one of the readers who stuck around to see this ending, I owe you a huge thank you. And to everyone who read this story, even just a part of it, I am incredibly grateful. So thanks. **

**Not sure what's next up for me. Maybe another fanfiction, maybe something of my own. But this is definitely not the last you'll see of me.**

**Now that that's over with, welcome to the finale of Hearing Things. I loved the journey, and I hope you did, too. :)**

Four Peacekeepers that all step to the same jolting rhythm are needed to escort me from the Capitol Square, and the whole time my feet do not touch real earth. From the stage I am herded backstage, then to the waiting monorail platform. Everything is organized so that a tribute could not get loose in the Capitol even if they wanted to, but I don't see the point. What is there left to run from? Now, for whatever it's worth, they're sending me home. They may have ruined me, but at least I get to drag all of that baggage back to District 7.

It's a homecoming I haven't considered. I can't imagine a world beyond the arena and this place full of bright, choking people. Here, where everything is surreal enough that I can imagine none of this is happening, it is easier to cope than it would be with solid ground under my feet.

They load me into the monorail and I stand awkwardly near the back. I rest one hand lightly on the guide rail, though I can't imagine what I'd need it for. The Capitol has engineered their technology so well that there is no risk of bumps or lurches. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I don't know why.

The Peacekeepers stand at attention, looking solemnly ahead. Their presence, too, puts a foul taste in my mouth. They have not spoken, and when I strain, I can't even hear them breathing. They're only pronouncing the silence, the empty aftermath between the Recaps and this short ride back to the Training Center. There is no one now to tell me whether I said the right things. I don't even get a pat on the back for surviving the entire three hours. I am completely adrift, left to fight my own gnawing thoughts and tap a nervous, uneven rhythm on the railing as we skate over the skyline of the Capitol.

The Capitol is lit by thousands of moving bodies in the impending dark. Spectators, presumably ones that couldn't get a spot at the Square, pack the streets beneath us. They're splashed in glowing paint that squirms over their skin in fluorescent greens and yellows, and as we pass overhead they wave bright neon sticks in the air. They have created a runway for the monorail as it glides over streets thick with bodies. People cheer and motion frantically to their friends as we pass overhead. Crowds strain for a glimpse, eyes flashing wide open with awe. A few point flashlights upwards, creating dancing patterns in the stars around us.

I feel like I am on top of the world as we fly over them, and I can't help but press closer to a window to get a better look as a particularly impressive bout of fireworks is released. But it is not my world that I am on top of, and it is not enough. These people are happy, half-crazed with excitement as they light up the night. But their thoughts are clouded by simplicity, and it is not the kind of life I could ever be satisfied with.

More fireworks go off, and I flinch. They erupt safely in the distance and a chorus of "ooh"s and "ah"s follows. They're spectacular, something I've never seen back in District 7, but I can't appreciate them. The bang of gunpowder that sets them off is too close to the boom of a cannon.

I'm torn, made half unhinged just by the eruption of a few fireworks. The promise I made to myself to not be the kind of Victor that throws their life away seems irrelevant in the wake of the Recaps. I want to be able to put this behind me and live in at least some semblance of normalcy – I sacrificed enough to keep breathing that it feels wasteful to throw it away after the fact. But I know that the only way to do it is to let them go, and that feels like a betrayal. After all that we went through, I can't forget Roe and Coral and Day. I owe them something. I can't go back and save them, but I can shoulder their memories. No one else is going to do it.

The monorail slides to a stop smoothly enough that I hardly feel it. The Peacekeepers waste no time in pulling the door open and forming another square around me, businesslike as they usher me forward. More Peacekeepers stand at attention on the upraised platform I am led onto. Around the platform a crowd teems, surging at the little stage as I step out of the monorail. I don't understand it – how they can be so fascinated with someone as unremarkable as me – and I can't help but stare back at them as the Peacekeepers push me forward. It is only when I make eye contact with one, her eyes glazed over and unseeing, that I am able to look away.

The Peacekeepers' silence is unforgiving as we shuffle through the Training Center's set of side doors and into the main lobby. The crowd heaves at the windows, peering through every inch of available glass to get a look. I feel exposed and ashamed, like I have done nothing good enough to deserve this kind of attention.

The elevator ride is terse and uncomfortable, and then I am dumped back into the same District 7 room as before. Only this time, 23 other rooms are empty, and the silence is thick in the air. I am told in a clipped tone that I should be ready at 7 the next morning for the trip back home.

Home.

I can't think about that right now.

I am avoiding the things I should be thinking about, solving, but I am too muddled by ghosts to want to think straight. If I try too hard I'll only disrupt the fragile balance between coping and…not.

I loiter around the room, unwilling to be still. Sleeping is not an option, not on that bed. In the arena, night was the time for never waking up again.

The room is mostly empty, just a bed and a side table and a blank TV seated on a dark wooden stand. It is the TV that makes me cringe, thinking of a screen back home that my parents watched this Hunger Games unfold on. I am spooked just looking at it, waiting for it to blink on with a Capitol mandated message like it would back in 7. It stares back, unyielding.

I shake my head, warding off demons, and it is then that I see the slim case resting on top of the TV. I freeze, wavering between curiosity and dread. I know that it doesn't belong it here, but that doesn't make sense. I highly doubt that this is something an Avox accidentally left behind when they cleaned the room, and if not, it's here for a reason.

After all this, what do they want with me? I have nothing left to give them. But I take a step forward anyway, then another, and grab the case before I can think better of it. I half expect dust to rub off on the pads of my fingers, but the plastic is smooth and new.

The Capitol seal emblazons the front of the thin case, and directly beneath it is a familiar line of words. THE 29th ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES, it announces, and for a moment I only pick out "The Hunger Games," and read the words with the same apprehension as always. It takes me a few seconds to process that this is not just another piece of Hunger Games propaganda.

Day died in the 29th Hunger Games. These are her Games.

I nearly drop it, like I've been burned. But I've withstood enough fire now that I am able to hang onto it.

Someone left this here for me to watch. There's no other explanation for why the Recaps of her Games would be here. But why should I play their games again? Why would they leave this for me, if not to wreck me further?

I throw it, gritting my teeth, and it slides across the carpet instead of hitting the wall as I had intended. I had wanted it to shatter beyond repair so that I couldn't be tempted to pick it back up again. I don't want to deal with problems now – I want to break whatever gets in my way.

The back of the case faces upwards now, and instead of a table of contents there are twenty four names printed across the case. I know one of them is Day's.

It is her – not the Capitol, not their games – that makes me pick up the case.

I jam the disc into the sleek player and start pacing, switching between watching the floor industriously and stealing glances at the screen as the 29th Hunger Games open to a dramatic round of trumpets that is only vaguely recognizable. Only the lyrics clue me in after the first verse – this is Panem's national anthem, just a version of it that's over a hundred years old.

I am going to wear tracks in the floor if I don't stop pacing, so I flip off the lights and force myself to thump down on the end of the bed and glue my eyes to the hazy glow of the screen as the TV boots up. It is then that the nervous twitches start up – first I am tapping my fingers on my leg, and then my whole leg is shaking up and down as I tap my foot anxiously against the floor. I can't sit still when I know that I am going to see her – her, not just the voice in my head, the girl I failed to save.

The Recaps start with pomp and circumstance that I am not interested to see. I find the fast forward button on the remote and skip forward, rushing past the Reapings of the Careers that I know killed her and all the tributes that come before District 11.

When I see the opening scene for District 11's Reapings – rolling plains and orchards that are supposed to be idyllic – I don't allow myself to hesitate before pressing play.

There are many, many children standing in the Reaping pens for this District. It's horrible, but I know why there are so many. Child labor is the quickest, easiest way to get things done in a place that has to produce so much food. This District doesn't care about the type of worker they're using, just that they have two hands to get the work done. I search instinctively for Day in the crowd, even though I've only seen her grainy picture once and there's no hope of locating her among this many heads. I want to drink her in while she's solid and real. I figure that this video will be much like my own Recaps - that I won't be able to find closure just by seeing her onscreen - but I can't help needing to hold onto her for just a little longer.

Their escort clambers onstage, leaning heavily on the guide rail to support the burden of her weight on tiny spindle heels. Capitol fashion is not so different even then – she looks ridiculous, fluffing her puffy hairstyle even higher and finding the time to straighten every article of clothing before leaning forward to put her candy lips against the microphone.

"Let's hear about our lady first, huh?" She says in a salesman's voice, rich with persuasion and confidence. She has done this a thousand times.

"Day Fischer!" Her very name sounds like innocence as it wreathes around the ears of the crowd. The camera cuts right to her, and her eyes grow impossibly wide. She is so young, with blonde waves bouncing around her tiny ears. A fairy child, made up of twigs and wisps of cloud, and her face is impossibly familiar to me.

Her face crumples once, giving into a quivering chin as she realizes what has to be done. But because she is Day, she sets her face and weaves her way through the crowd. It takes her many lonely steps – she had been hovering near the back of the pen, as close as she could get to the mother and father that were just on the other side of the barrier.

The hollow _thunks_ her feet make on the wooden steps to the stage are very audible. One, two, three, and then she is on stage, looking like she might blow away. There are tears forming in her eyes, but when she faces the crowd she forces a smile through the tears, convincing the ones she will be leaving behind that she is going to be ok.

The camera pans back to her family, who are clutching the rails of the barrier like they can't believe they didn't catch her while they could. A young boy, no more than nine years old, stares up at Day, clearly confused. There is a shock of carrot red fluffing out from his temple.

Him, dead. They're all dead by now, more than a hundred and twenty years since that day. Her whole family is gone.

A boy is called forward, and he can't be more than fourteen, but he looks infinitely older standing next to her. Shaggy brown hair falls into his defensive eyes, and his hand engulfs hers when they face each other and tentatively extend their hands. I can't help thinking that he could use a good haircut before going into the arena. He probably won't have someone like Coral there to do it for him.

They are escorted away by Peacekeepers, but before they part I swear I see his hand squeeze hers once in reassurance. It's not much, but it's enough to make me feel a little better. Maybe, before the Games, he was there for her.

I only hit the fast forward button when she's out of sight. I almost miss the Chariot Rides in my impatience, but I manage to hit play just as District 10 is coming on scene. This year their chariot is empty and they sit astride the horses pulling it, dressed in patchwork shirts and frayed jeans. They have pieces of straw hanging out of their mouths and look none too happy about it. I don't recognize their outfits – none of it looks like typical District 10 to me, but I guess things have changed in a hundred years.

District 11 is next, and as usual their outfits are not impressive. _This _style I recognize, with slender vines sliding over Day's skin and leaves poking out of her coiled blonde hair. Today, the tributes would be naked aside from the strategically placed vines. Day is dressed with a little more modesty that I guess has to do with her age. Tiny green shorts and a cutoff t-shirt protect her modesty, but I still feel uncomfortable knowing that the whole crowd can see her belly button and knobby little knees.

She and the boy are mostly hidden in the back of the chariot, and Day is shaking her head as if she's too nervous to wave at the crowd. But the boy is pulling at her hands, smirking, and she relents. He drags her to the front of the chariot, gesturing to the crowd, and she giggles. Then he lets go of her hands and latches onto the thin black support beams before launching himself, with some difficulty, onto the slanted roof of the chariot. She laughs at him like he's crazy, but then he has gotten a hold of her hands and pulled her up after him.

She nearly falls as the well-versed horses pulling the chariot slow to accommodate their antics, but then she has righted herself and they're both laughing, clinging giddily to each other's hands to keep balanced. Now she is glowing with enthusiasm, waving at the crowd and beaming as if it's nothing, and they love it.

They pass out of sight, and watching the satisfied smiles on the audience members' faces, I feel like I should be smiling, too. Day's antics were the kind of fluffy thing that the Capitol ate up. But I know the end to this story – that Day doesn't make it. She dies in the bloodbath. I can't smile, knowing that. I can only be angry at them for taking it away. I can feel the heat steaming up through my blood, itching and reminding me that _this is wrong._

I hit fast forward before I can dwell on that any longer.

I watch the screen blur until I reach District 11's interviews. Day is first, dressed in a child's dress, all ruffles. It looks ridiculous - too lighthearted for these Games – until she turns her giddy, blinding smile on the crowd. Then it doesn't matter that this dress is made for a child, not a girl who is about to fight for her life. Whatever reservations the crowd might have about this bubbling girl must be swept away as she curtsies, giggling at her own silliness. Who wouldn't want to love her?

Because she is only a bloodbath tribute, the Recaps will not dwell on her for long. I know that, but that doesn't make her words any less magical.

"So, Day," the thin, outrageously good-natured interviewer says, clearing his throat and leaning in. He is dressed cleanly, with straight brown hair brushed across his forehead. I don't know when the Flickerman tradition began, but I doubt it was with him and his sharp-pressed gray suit. Not enough color.

"What are you hoping for most in the arena?"

It is a serious question. Day could misstep and reveal a weakness, or give the sponsors a taste of just what she is good at. I find myself hoping that she does a good job, but then realize with a crash that it doesn't matter. However well she does here, it won't change the fact that she's already dead.

She thinks on it for a moment. "Pockets," she pipes up, giving an impish, almost embarrassed smile.

The interviewer gives a baffled laugh. "And why ever so, dearest Day?"

"What am I going to do with my token if there aren't any pockets?" She holds up her token for the first time, and for a moment it is only flashing copper in the glare of the stage lights. Then the camera focuses and I can see that she is holding a tiny figure, one that's about as thick as my index finger and only half as long. It's a tiny girl made from burnished copper with her arms outstretched and her toes pointed downward, as if she is trying to stretch enough that she could take to the sky. A tiny, rough hewn skirt swirls around her knees and her face is blank and worn, so well-touched that the features have nearly been rubbed away.

"I can't exactly carry this around for the whole Games." She turns it in her fingers and light bounces off of it, turning the dirty figure into something radiant.

"And what is that?" The interviewer asks. "May I?"

Day smiles and hands it to him. He mouths _wow _and rolls it over on his palm, seemingly fascinated by it.

"She's a dancer. She's from one of the old music boxes – you know, the ones you crank and music plays and the little ballerina spins? A couple years ago one of the music boxes showed up at the market and I really wanted it – I heard they played the prettiest songs – but my mother said she couldn't get it for me."

Poverty is the reason Day couldn't have her music box, but that doesn't faze her. She just chatters on as if it is no big deal.

"So I may have pouted just a little," she flashes a silly, sheepish grin, "and the shopkeeper said to me that she might have a deal for me. She told me the music box was broken anyway, and that she was really selling it for the metal, not for the box itself. She said the dancer was so little, and hollow anyway, that it wasn't worth much. So she broke it off and told me I could have her, as long as I kept it our little secret."

"Too late now, huh? You may have just revealed that on national television," the interviewer jokes playfully.

"Oops," Day says, her cheeks going pink, but she doesn't seem too concerned. "I don't think she'll mind all that much, though."

The crowd laughs for her, completely ensnared by the girl on stage, and Day's interview ends. Her District partner is next, and he puts on less of a show, but I feel indebted to watch just because of the way he treated Day. He answers his questions gruffly, with no-nonsense answers, and I wonder what happened to the boy that led Day up onto the roof of the chariot and held onto her while she laughed and the world spun around them.

I hit the fast forward button one last time.

Now the camera swoops over the arena, a twisted, dead place. Rocky gray soil stretches as far as the camera can see, rolling in bluffs and hills until it reaches sheer cliffs on every side of the arena. The Cornucopia is the only bright spot in the entire place, and that's not so encouraging considering that in a few minutes, the Cornucopia will be splattered with blood.

I hold my breath.

The tributes' heads break the surface first, and then their platforms rise to full height.

The countdown begins. _60, 59, 58._

It takes me a moment to find Day. She's standing, smaller than usual, on her platform. She does not smile bravely now. Now, with the world really crashing around her, she can't find the strength to smile for the cameras. Instead she stares out at the landscape that is ready to swallow her up and clenches her hands in front of her, a prayer.

She fights tears. I fight the way my breath comes harder, promising that this will not be easy.

_50, 49, 48._

I scan the platforms for someone else - her District partner, the one that squeezed her hand when they were reaped. He took her hand again to lead her up onto the roof of their chariot. A show of solidarity. But he is not looking at her now. His eyes are on the Cornucopia, legs tensed to run. His world has narrowed down to these heartbeats and the pull of muscles in his legs that will carry him towards the lion's den. He does not care about her. I had hoped, like an idiot, that he would be there for her. But she is alone.

_40, 39, 38._

I look back at Day. There is no calm in her eyes now. She's not even trying.

I feel compelled to check for pockets. There are slim lines carved into the sides of her tight black pants, neatly hidden with a fine line of dark stitching. I wonder if they're there just for her.

One of her hands sweeps nervously over her left hip, hesitating before clenching into a shaky fist. She will not reach for the safety blanket buried inside that pocket, not yet.

_30, 29, 28._

Her lips tremble, caught between collapsing into a sob and maintaining a brave face.

I can't decide which is worse to watch – the girl breaking down or the girl who isn't allowed to cry because the Capitol won't like it.

_20, 19, 18._

They say that the Day I heard in my head was only a program based off of the real Day standing onscreen. Maybe if I hadn't seen this video, I would have lingering doubts. Maybe they would be able to gloss it over with a pretty explanation and some reassuring promises. But that girl and the one I knew are the same. I can see it in the way she moves, the way her eyes battle between fear and forced optimism.

_10, 9, 8._

She bites her lip, looking like a sacrifice. Looking like Roe. I crack a little more.

_7, 6, 5._

The countdown is crashing faster, every number a heartbeat. Day must realize that she is running headfirst toward the end.

_4._

In the last seconds, she chooses. She sets her lips in a firm line and looks grimly forward, to the Cornucopia. She is fierce in that second, slipping so easily into her role for the cameras. No one would dare doubt that this girl is brave. But I know better. I know she is panicking inside, trying to hold her thoughts together while the question is incessant, demanding in the back of her mind.

She tries not to think about the end, but it is all she can think about as the gongs remind her how limited her heartbeats are.

_3._

Something begins to grow in the pit of my stomach and crawl up my veins, seeking, demanding, as I watch the girl onscreen. It screams that I can't let this go.

_2. _

Day closes her eyes for a long moment, on the precipice between the dreams she wants to retreat to and the world she has to face.

There is heat in my blood, pounding just under the skin. It is a blaze I haven't felt since I met Day, when she was invading and it was all I could do to retain my sanity. I thought I was losing myself, and I guess, in a way, I have. She got me in the end. She needed me, if only to follow her into the dark, and I let her down. But not again. I will not let her fade away.

_1._

Day opens her eyes.

I vow to never let her go.

And I switch off the TV as the last gong sounds.

I am not here to watch her die. I am here to keep something of her alive. And, in all honesty, I probably couldn't handle it. I don't know how far I can push my sanity.

The screen winks into darkness with a final flash of white light and the room is black again. But the darkness does not fall fast enough to conceal a tiny, bright object lying on top of the dresser that supports the TV. I tell myself that I imagined it, because that's the routine way to deal with ghosts now, but I am curious enough to stand and flip the lights back on to check.

Lying on the dresser is a worn copper object, about as thick as my index finger and half as long. I scoop it up and roll it between my fingers, uncomprehending, until I realize what importance the tiny figure has. It's a dancer, with her tiny arms stretched over her head like wings. Her feet are broken off, as if she has been wrenched from whatever supported her before.

There is a roaring in my ears as the walls seem to close in around me, making my head spin.

This is Day's token.

It burns in my palm but I hold on, clutching it harder until my knuckles have turned white and its little joints are digging into my skin. There is something about it that is too physical, so different from the voice in my head or the images onscreen. Day held this once, maybe kissed it goodnight when the whole world closed in on her and it was just her and a tiny dancer on the way to the Capitol. I can _feel _her on it, feel a hundred years of herhistory worked into the metal.

Someone left this here for me to find. I don't know why, but I have an idea of what I'm going to do about it. I slip it into my pocket and fight to keep my balance, listen to the pounding in my head and force myself to accept that it's only my heartbeat I hear.

The room is silent and wrong against the backdrop of my heart pounding in my ears. There is heat under my skin, demanding release, burning its way out of me. It feels like a fever, and I know that's supposed to be a sign that something's wrong. But this doesn't feel wrong. It feels like something has to be done, and I'm going to be the one to do it. I'm sick of waiting around and feeling sorry about everything that's happening. I can't fix anything, but I refuse to let them get away with it all as I stand by and watch.

Anger is thudding in my pulse as I make for the door. I don't know where I'm going, but I won't let them keep me in here any longer. I want to break something, smash their faces in like they've watched so many tributes do to each other in their Games.

I try the door handle. It's locked, like I should have expected. Breath whistles fast between my teeth, keeping tempo with the pounding of my heart. Fury rises to my throat, threatening to spill over.

I slam my toe into the door. It doesn't budge, and I spend a moment wincing before I step back to land a better kick on it. It's a weak door, made out of thin, compressed wood. It's not made to keep me in here.

It rattles in place, but the lock still holds firm.

I grit my teeth. Where am I even going? If I get through this door, it won't make a difference. They'll still be dead.

But I kick it again anyway, and again, until the thumps are landing in a rhythm.

My breath becomes a snarl and I back off for a moment just to breathe and try to collect myself. When I rush the door again, I deliver another kick and slam into the door as hard as I can. It springs open with a groan and I tumble into the hallway, reeling against the opposite wall. I am entirely too loud in the dark, still hallway. I don't know what I expected, but this hallway is not as dangerous as thought it would be. It's just me and a long, black walk.

My anger flags for a moment as I hesitate. There's a nagging worry again – _what am I doing here? – _but I shake it off and remember Day's face – remember Coral's and Roe's as the Capitol took them. It's enough to get me moving down the hallway, taking quiet, stilted breaths as if there's something here to hide from.

I half expect to stumble over imaginary dips and rises as I make my way down the hall. I can't see anything, so I spring back in surprise when my outstretched hands brush against a wall. The hallway ends in what I remember as the elevator, and I fumble for the right button to open it before I consider that the elevator's movement might alert someone to my – escape? I don't know what this is.

The elevator door glides open silently, and it feels too easy as I step on board and coast down to the ground floor. It is only when the doors reopen that I see the problem.

Two Peacekeepers, looking half asleep under the fluorescent lights, are watching the main door directly opposite of the elevator. I jitter in place, caught between retreating and making a break for it, until the doors begin to slide closed and I squeeze through. I skitter toward a hallway that I think will be out of their sight, convinced that I will be caught. But right now, with righteous anger burning holes in my logic, I don't care. What can they do to me, a Victor? I'm too valuable to them. They'll escort me back to my room and I'll kick their damn door down again.

But they turn too late. "What the hell was that?" One mutters, and they break for the elevator, swinging their white guns like that alone makes them official.

I slide down the hallway, holding my breath, torn between wanting to hide and wanting to leap at their backs. But I am faced with the question again – what then? I'm so lost, even moving down this straight hallway. It's not like I could hurt them. They'd just turn their guns on me and have a real excuse to shoot me. Even after all of this, I'm not ready to hand myself over so easily.

"Reroute the elevator before it gets to the next floor," one commands, and there's a second's pause as I assume they punch buttons.

The elevator is only faintly audible as it slides back down to the ground floor and opens up.

"And…no one. Good job. You're hearing things."

"This place is freaking haunted, I swear."

"Dead children," the other says darkly, then laughs. I wonder how calloused a person must be to joke about something like that.

"Quit it," the other guard grumbles, and they amble back to their post. I don't stick around. I trot down the hall, trying desperately to keep my steps quiet and not break into a sprint. Paranoia, animalistic and familiar, keeps my heart racing.

I still have no idea where I'm going. Now, with their voices behind me, this seems ridiculous. I'm wandering around right under their noses, and there's no way I'm going to get away with it. But I can't go back now, not when they're waiting. So I'm stuck moving forward and wondering just how to stifle the anger burning a hole right through me.

The hall stretches on. I take a left at random, and I no longer know whether I'm veering deeper into this maze or finding my way out. Since the way out involves a pair of guards and a haunted room with a broken door, it doesn't really matter.

The doors begin, randomly interspersed on either side of the hall. They're all helpfully labeled, and not one is anywhere I need to be. I don't recognize this place, but it's not like I've really been anywhere in this giant building but my room, the stylist's area, and the training room.

I turn right at the next fork and this hallway is bare, with no doors on either side. It seems pretty useless until it ends abruptly at two wide, thick doors with no handles. A sign above them reads "Medical Center," and I wonder if this is the same place that they used to bring me back to life. Anything could be buried in this maze of halls and doors.

I push on them tentatively, wondering how in the world they expect to get in when there are no handles. They swing open easily, surprising me, and swing back into place with a gentle swoosh as I walk through. I freeze, immediately wondering if I'm locked in, but when I push on them again they swing open just as easily. They're just doors, nothing to be afraid of.

The lobby I am facing is incredibly bland. There are no waiting chairs and nothing on the blank walls, just a desk behind a glass sheet that looks incredibly easy to smash. But because it's so late the lights are out, blanketing the room in unnatural shadows. Only regulation emergency lights, glowing red in the dark, reveal what I'm facing.

Maybe it's some deep rooted fear of these Capitol doctors, or maybe just my own paranoia, but I hate it in here. The red glow cast on the smooth surfaces doesn't look like blood, but it's the only thing I can think about. I want to scramble for the exit, but even this room is safer than the way back, if I could even find it. It looks pretty deserted, and I don't know where Peacekeepers might be crawling around on the outside.

I move forward again, uncomfortable with the feeling of pressure against my back. There is a small opening to the side of the desk and glass that leads back to a long hallway that I assume opens up the rest of the medical center. There's a half door blocking the way, and it's locked securely, but I just vault over it and keep going.

I expect a wall of medical records and a few little rooms, maybe. Not the huge, open floor that waits at the end of the hallway. It's an octagon, completely bare aside from the 8 doors set into each wall, and lit by a single red bulb that is set into the ceiling. I can see fluorescent lights flanking it, but they're turned off just like the rest of the lights in the building.

I try the doors, and they're all very thick and very locked. There aren't even keyholes, just dead keypads beside the handles. I think about kicking one in, but it looks like that would hurt me more than them, and besides, I don't even know what I'm here for. I'm itching to destroy something, to scream to the Capitol a message that I can't be complacent so easily. It doesn't matter what I break, as long as it is something they will miss.

I move away from the doors and down the only hallway that branches off of the octagon, trying to shake off the creeping feeling that this really is where they brought me after the Games. I'm looking for another door, some other option so that I can keep moving and searching for something to destroy until my anger runs out. But this hallway ends in another locked door, forming a dead end. There's nowhere left for me to go.

I am a caged animal as I pace back down the hall, seething with injustice and frustration. Now, when I want to hurt them, I can't even do it. There's nothing here for me to break. I can't leave a mark on them.

About halfway down the little hallway is an emergency fire alarm, propped up behind a glass case and hung on the wall. There is a label in red beneath it: IN EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS AND PULL HANDLE. I figure this, the Hunger Games and dead children and my own sanity, is enough of an emergency.

There is a convenient little metal bar under the fire alarm just for this purpose. I pick it up and smash it into the glass as hard as I can, screaming in fury as the bar comes down and the glass shatters, sending shrapnel flying into my hands and scattering to the floor

I slump back against the wall, trying to feel my bleeding hands, and don't pull the alarm. Whatever emergency I'm having, it's not like they can help.

There is glass embedded in my hands and broken pieces of the Capitol all around me, but it is not enough. This broken fire alarm will not even faze them. They will replace it and carry on, and there will be no revenge for Day's death. For Coral's. For Roe's.

I have not done enough and the inadequacy is making it hard to breathe. I suck in a breath, torn between giving up and finding some other way to hurt them, before getting woodenly to my feet and stumbling back to a room marked with an unexceptional label, "Temporary Storage." The metal bar feels good in my hand, familiar, and the blood that wells up around it when I squeeze is even more familiar.

This door is not as thick as the others, and there is no fancy keypad beside it. It's only a storage closet, nothing special, and it's something that I can match.

Gritting my teeth, I slam into it and press with all of my weight until the wood groans and snaps, leaving the door to swing loosely on useless hinges. I am at a loss for a moment, staring at a little room that is lined with flimsy metal shelves and boxes of varying sizes. I fumble for the light switch and even then, with the harsh lights illuminating the whole room, I have a hard time remembering why I'm here.

I clutch the bar in my hand, glass digging in deeper as I do, and remember Coral's face as the Career split her open. It is enough to make me stumble forward, rage rising as bile in my throat.

I grab the closest box, this one wide and cardboard. I hesitate for a moment, wondering whether I am really going to do this, and then turn it upside down to watch its contents fall to the floor with a satisfying crash. Slim, shiny objects that I assume are used in the medical wing spill out, glinting up at me spitefully .

I am almost disappointed when no alarm goes off at the noise; when I don't hear footsteps coming down the hall. I am here for revenge, for blood, and there's no one here to acknowledge that.

I slip my hand into my pocket and feel the warm copper dancer under my fingers. I don't have to remind myself why I'm here.

There are three shelves, each lining one of the room's walls. I am going to bring them all down.

The thin metal shelves aren't even bolted to the wall – they stand on little wheels for mobility, and it makes them all the easier to tear down. I size one of them up before placing my hands on it. They're shaking, from rage or the memories or something else, and it isn't hard to make them pull.

It's so easy to send the first one crashing to the floor. Boxes and surgical tools go flying across the slick tile, popping and shattering as breakable things meet their end. When the second one goes down I scream, one cry for the injustice of everything that I have been made to witness. But once I start I can't stop, and I'm screaming at the Capitol and death and this damn world that cares to do nothing more than turn us into food for the worms. It is only when the screams start turning into broken, hiccupping sobs that I realize what I'm doing and sink to my knees amid the broken glass and scattered tools.

My head is in my hands before I can do anything about it, and I give in to it. Blood from my hands drips down my face as I press my palms into my temple, saving me from having to decide whether there are tears there as well.

I miss them. And I miss who I used to be.

I sink back until I am sitting on the ground with my back against one of the walls. With a groan I rub my eyes before I realize that the blood on my hands will only make things worse. I fall silent to look at the destruction I have made out of this closet.

Cardboard boxes are overturned on the slick tile, spilling contents as varied as steely-edged surgical tools and crisp white scrubs. I don't know what I am going to do – sit here until the morning comes again and they discover me here? But then I see the label on one of the boxes – the "150th Hunger Games" in a thick black font across the front of it.

I grab it without thinking it through first, and as I do sheets of paper slide out, scattering across the floor. There are files in the box, stacked on each other until they're brimming over the top. I snatch the first one and scan it hungrily. "District 3, Female Tribute," reads the first line, and the rest of the page is an indecipherable blur of words and charts that I don't care to read. I don't know what I was looking for, but it wasn't this, a scorecard for a girl I never knew. The rest of the pages are the same, stats for the other tributes. I toss them aside, wishing I could set them on fire and watch them disappear. Wishing I could burn this whole place down.

There are more labeled boxes, all for the "150th Hunger Games." I disregard them until I see a larger, silver box that's closed in the front with a little safety latch. It's the way this box looks – an overturned fortress in the middle of all this rubble - that makes me slide it closer.

My fingers hover over the latch, and I am suddenly struck with dread as I look at it. But I push past my doubts and undo the latch so that the top of the box swings open with the well-oiled efficiency of the Capitol.

Inside there are little black boxes, about five of them, nestled safely between foam lining. They appear nondescript, with simple white labels stretched across the top. The only thing I think is that the Capitol seems to have a penchant for labels, and I'm about to throw them away, but then a faint, green light pulses almost imperceptibly from one.

I am used to traps. I am used to terrible accidents. I am used to surprises from the Capitol that only end in blood. So I spring back, knocking the box away with one foot. When it doesn't move again, I am left at an impasse, staring at the nondescript silver box and thinking myself paranoid.

I imagined it. I'm seeing things. I'm nearly out of my mind, crouched among scattered tools and glass in a mostly empty supply closet, trying to make some mark on the Capitol by breaking whatever I can get my hands on. It makes sense that I would imagine something.

I try to remind myself that after the Hunger Games, I'm not afraid of anything. I'm doing this for Day and Roe and Coral. So I slide the box back over and pick one out as fearlessly as I can, convincing myself that this isn't some bomb the Capitol has planted. Nothing dangerous would be in their temporary storage closet.

The strip of paper on the top of this one says "Kara Woods," a name I don't recognize, and then "District 1 Female," beneath. I turn the little cube in my fingers, beginning to think this was a waste of time. But then I notice that the cube isn't totally black, but rather thick, dark glass. When I hold it up to the light I can see tiny mechanisms inside, spinning wheels and whirring gears that work almost silently beneath the glass, generating a tiny humming noise I can only hear when I hold it up to my ear. Then, as I watch, a muted green light pulses from its very center and disappears before I can blink. Like clockwork, a few seconds later, the light flashes again.

_What the hell? _I think with a hiss, and before I register the movement, I fling the cube across the closet. It smashes into the opposite wall and explodes with an unnatural screech, flinging shards of glass back at me. The rubble actually smokes and winds down with a terrible, slow whir that sounds like old machinery grinding to a halt. Blinking, I lean closer to take a better look and see that the glass has split open, exposing still machinery and a tiny light that doesn't blink anymore.

It's starting to look like a trap. The remaining cubes rattle as I push the box away, and I am determined not to touch them again. In fact, I've had enough of breaking things tonight, because for everything that shatters I can feel something important snapping inside of me. I'm drowning in the grief instead of beating it, and this isn't making anything better.

There's a short, three letter name on one of the labels that I can see out of the corner of my eye. It could say Ray. I convince myself that it's only his name, nothing to worry about as the closet walls begin to press in on me so fast that my head spins.

It isn't.

Day Fischer.

Horror sets in as I read the labels on the cubes next to hers.

Coral White.

Roe Forrester.

Camden Alexander.

I have no idea what I'm looking at, but the dread in the pit of my stomach tells me it's not good. Anything of the Capitol's with their names on it can't be good.

Day's blinks, a tiny heartbeat, and I am left feeling very useless. What am I supposed to do now, just latch this case back up and put these back where I found them? I promised to preserve them somehow, so it doesn't make much sense for me to bury whatever these things are in with the rest of the rubble.

I stand, still holding Day's little cube, and scan the rubble around me. I don't know what kind of clue I'm looking for, but it only takes me a minute to spot another one of the silver cases lying half-buried under scattered papers and boxes.

The floor tilts under my feet and concentrated horror seeps into my thoughts, tinting them with unhealthy panic. I know it's unreasonable, but anything to do with my old allies is enough to start my heart racing. Can't they just let them be? They're already cold in the ground, so why can't they leave them in peace?

It's a bad idea, but I begin to sift through the loose papers on the ground. They're all Capitol things I can barely understand, but occasionally a familiar tribute's name will pop up. I figure they have something to do with betting – quotes and statistics on each of the tributes scrawl across the pages.

Exhaustion swamps me. I really just want to be able to put this behind me, even though I know I've made enough promises to the dead that I'll likely be trapped like this forever. I stare across the closet to the silver case and in glints back in return, a challenge. Day's cube weighs heavy in my hand, but I make up my mind. Protecting their memories is one thing, but if I can't even pack these things away, that's not doing them a service. That's the kind of obsession that's going to wreck me.

I take heavy steps toward the case and tuck Day's cube back in quickly, hoping that the metal latch of the case is going to feel like closure. But as soon as it's gone from my hand, I only feel achingly lonely.

Shaking my head, I almost get the case closed before the voices start.

_Wait, _a phantom whispers, and my head jerks up. The voice is faint, choked-sounding, but I know exactly who it is.

_Stop. Calm down. That's not Day you're hearing. It's just your imagination. Just get the hell out of this closet before you really go crazy, _I think firmly to myself. I can't lose it now, not when I'm so close to home. But I've already started hearing things.

I freeze in place, listening, but I can't hear anything but my own heartbeat stuttering too fast in my chest. I will myself to calm down and try to close the case again. It's not like those cubes really have anything to do with my allies, so it shouldn't matter whether or not I tuck them back in with the rest of this mess.

This time, though, it isn't a voice that stops me. It's a thick white envelope that's nestled half underneath the cubes, placed just so that it takes minimal effort for me to yank it out and tear the top open before I can think about it.

It's a thick packet, stapled so that the tiny bend of metal strains over the pages. Severe-looking font marches across the pages, and I pour greedily over the words, looking for some mention of their names. Instead I get a load of garbage I can't really understand - long words with italicized pronunciation guides out to the side and some sort of opening thesis. This I don't care about. I only want to reassure myself that these cubes are nothing special so that I can get on with my life.

"_Enclosed are five (5) of the Containment Chambers (C.C.D.S) issued for the support of the 250__th__ Hunger Games. Each C.C.D.S is of the latest model (S2.587) developed specifically for the streamlined containment and preservation of specific Capitol interests from the 6__th__ Quarter Quell. The latter models are the result of ten years of research and development and are expected to last for as many as 500 years. Under the direction of Ms. Priscilla M. of the Capitol Development Team, these C.C.D.S are to be distributed to select tributes from the 250__th__ Hunger Games. Total delivery is of 15 C.C.D.S is estimated to provide sufficient storage for whatever interests the Head Gamemaker and Ms. Priscilla M. may have…"_

I stare at the words, willing them to make sense, but I still don't get it.

"What the hell," I mutter, throwing the papers to the floor. The fragile staple snaps, and the sheets go flying. Diagrams scatter across the tile, showing complicated machines in tiny, black and white detail. More indecipherable words follow, paragraphs on what looks like instructions for using the cubes.

_Arden…help…_

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. It's the same damn whispery voice, so familiar in the confines of my head that I have to seriously wonder whether I'm losing it.

_Please…_

"Shut up," I mutter back, gathering the papers jerkily and trying to stuff them back in the case. More than anything, I need to get out of here.

"_The "soul" has been debated throughout the ages as the core of human thought and spiritual relationships, but tangible proof of such an entity remained ambiguous until extended research was done for the production of Muttations that were to be driven by human thought. A core of humanity was sought on the premise of sustained life and thought. Certain tributes were preserved for usage in a special Quarter Quell, and more will be preserved again for use at the Capitol's discretion…"_

The words are printed in searing letters across the page, but I shake off the sense of horror and try to convince myself that I still don't understand what's going on. I finish stuffing the papers back into the case and slam it shut before staggering back to my feet and making for the door.

_That's me, Arden…that's what they did to us…and they'll do it…again…_

"Shut _up_! You're not real!" I shout, fumbling blindly for the doorknob. "You're dead." The last words are a broken whisper, falling flat in the silence.

My forehead rests against the cool of the door as I draw in a staggering breath and try to process this. The silence rings heavily, a buzz in my ears that makes me feel like I'm falling.

Then the pounding starts, chaotic and even faster than my heartbeat. I jerk back, confused, until I register that it's the sound of boots thumping against tile. The shouting comes next, angry and clipped in the sharp tone of Peacekeepers.

"Check every door!" Someone commands in a gruff yell. "He's somewhere in this hall."

"Sir!" Several voices respond, and there is a resounding clatter of doors opening and slamming.

"Damn it," I hiss, my heart rate picking up to rise to the challenge.

_Help us!_

Day's voice comes in weakly, a final plea, before abruptly cutting off.

I am a caged animal again, the way out barred by a troop of Peacekeepers. All I want to do is run and leave the danger far behind, a leftover instinct from the Hunger Games. But even now, I can't leave them here.

I think of the hell Day described - a dark, sensory-deprivation chamber where the only thing she knew was her own twisted fear. A place I saw once, however briefly. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how brave I was, the fear didn't stop coming, corrupting everything I thought was real. It was the most terrifying thing I'd ever experienced.

I'd wanted to die.

She's just a kid, but they made her rot alone for over a hundred years, clinging onto an imitation of life that was nothing more than a Capitol experiment. They didn't care about saving the consciousness of an innocent girl and storing her away so that they could keep her alive. They only wanted to use her for their sick Quarter Quell. And they'll do it again, but not just to her. They could have a whole Hunger Games reunion, complete with the friends I let die.

My stomach rolls over at the thought. Prickling, cold drops of sweat break out across my forehead. And still the Peacekeepers come on, slamming doors and shouting commands. Panic makes me clumsy, nearly dropping Day's cube as I snatch it back out. I grasp frantically at the others', Roe's and Coral's sitting serenely amid the shards of glass.

They're all in here, trapped away, screaming, and I still can't help them. I can't bring them back. I can't even keep them safe from the Peacekeepers storming the hallway. I let them down before, and it's going to happen again as I watch.

I can't bring myself to let them go. If I leave them, it might be a year, or a hundred, but they'll be used again. They'll go back into the arena in one way or another, but not as themselves. They'll be weak voices trapped in the mind of some other terrified kid. And they won't ever win.

The slamming noises grow closer, ricocheting crazily in the tiny space. I can't tell them apart any more, but I know I only have a few seconds before they're here. I'll never see Roe or Coral or Day again. They'll suffer, and it will be my fault for being so damn helpless now.

Day's is cradled safely in my hands, but I think for a split second how easy it would be to drop the cube. Watch it shatter into a thousand tiny pieces and go flying across the closet. Watch the tiny pieces of machinery stutter to a halt and fall still. She'd be…gone? I don't know if I'll ever know the truth about the existence of the soul, or whether I even have the right to go meddling with something bigger than life itself. But maybe there's something more – something stronger than death, something after we think it's all over. Now, though, they're stuck somewhere in between, not really alive or dead, unable to move on.

If I break these cubes, maybe they just cease to exist when the little cogs stop turning. I kill them for good.

Or I give them a second chance.

Now Day's cube is treacherous in my hands. I stuff it back into the case and rake my fingers through my hair, fighting back the bile that's rising in my throat. I can't do this. The room is spinning and I'm dizzy with responsibility, with holding their lives in my hands _again. _I've fallen behind the cracks of what the Capitol wants me to see, and I can't go back to what I used to know.

"I can't kill you," I whisper brokenly to no one, clenching my fists against the tile floor. I'm kneeling next to the case, staring it down as the world tilts around me. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

_Arden, damnit. Stop screwing around, they're coming! You idiot, just help us! _Coral's voice, detached but still unmistakably her, comes floating from some place I can't identify.

_Hurry! _Roe's voice follows hers, making me wonder if I really have gone crazy.

"Don't leave!" I croak, panicking. All I want is to have them back, and they're so close that it's making my throat close up, a mix of bile and unshed tears choking me.

Silence descends between the slams, for only a second, and Day's voice, heartbreakingly hers, is the only thing I cling to.

_It's okay._

Then they're gone.

And I have a job to do.

"Check this room!" A Peacekeeper orders, so close I can make out his gravely, panting breaths. I lurch to my feet, half blinded, and I still don't know whether this is right or wrong.

I overturn the open case in my hands, and for a second there is only shaky silence.

Then the cubes slip loose and go crashing to the ground.

They hit with a resounding smash, delicate glass exploding on impact. Glass splinters fly up, embedding themselves viciously in my skin. Pieces of them are digging into me, but I can't feel it. There are tears welling up in my eyes, making it impossible to find the door as tiny, motorized cogs skid across the floor and slowly stop spinning.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I choke out between harsh sobs, feeling blindly for the door. I just want to be out, so far away that I can't miss them anymore.

The door flies open, and I nearly collide with the person barging in. I stagger back, but he grabs me by the chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. "What the hell," he mutters, taking in the devastation, and it's only then that his image clears and I realize who he is. It's the older Victor from District 7, the one with the red eyes who clued me in on the Capitol's lies about programming the voices.

"Hey! Idiot, what the hell are you still doing in here?" He shouts at me, but I can't respond. My emotions are still reeling, still tied to the tiny pieces of glass all over the floor. "Trying to save your ass, and you're standing in here like a vegetable. What the hell did you do this place? Never mind, damnit, you have to get out of here, unless you want serious trouble."

I stare at him, uncomprehending. He slaps me, hard, and glowers at me when I still don't move.

"Go down this hallway. I'll distract the bloodhounds, give them another trail. If you run fast enough, you can get to the end and make it to the emergency door up to the roof. When it's clear, you can double back through and go back to your room. Think of a good explanation while you're at it, huh?"

He slips back out the door, back to the Peacekeepers, and starts shouting at them about something I can't really hear. I can't seem to get my feet into gear, and I don't really see the point anyway. If the Peacekeepers catch me, they can't hurt me the way they want to. Their pain is the kind I welcome now, a distraction.

A distraction from the fact that I just killed my best friends.

"Look, I think I have a lead on him. Just – just follow me, ok?" It's the other Victor again, still trying doggedly to convince the Peacekeepers to leave the hall. I don't know why he's doing it – it's not like he owes me.

"Typically, we would complete a thorough investigation of this hall before moving on," a gruff voiced Peacekeeper argues, but the Victor interrupts.

"Hey, if you hesitate, you'll never find him. I'm telling you, we only have a very small window of opportunity-"

I bolt out the door. I have no idea if they've seen me, and I don't particularly care. The world swings crazily in my vision as I half stumble down the hall, discovering new wounds on my legs that I'm sure are a result of the destruction I've caused.

I hear footsteps as I fumble at the knob of the door that is supposed to lead to the roof. I can only hope that their backs are turned as I launch myself through the doorway and lurch up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. It's a narrow staircase, probably meant for custodial use and not a half-crazed tribute slamming into the walls.

There's another door at the top of the staircase that I can't get open for a few panicked seconds before I am dumped out into the crisp night air.

_I'm so, so sorry._

The door eases itself shut behind me, and I don't hear any shouts behind it. It looks like the other 7 Victor managed to convince them to leave. It's probably clear down there. But I have no intention of going back.

With a chilled breeze whistling in my ears and nothing but a flat, starry expanse stretched out above me, my racing heart slows to a shambling pace and a dreadful clarity settles over me. The adrenaline seeps away, leaving me with nothing but the glass buried in my hands and the sharp, unavoidable knowledge that _I killed them._

They're dead, and I killed them.

I rake my fingers down my face, hunching in on myself as the wind blows past me, slipping easily around the only obstacle in this empty place above the rest of the world. I have never been so alone.

And I have never wanted so badly to die.

I limp forward almost blindly, fixated on the blurry, glowing Capitol lights that dance in the distance. The roof is shorter than I thought, and almost immediately I am on the precipice between the black-shingled roof and the flat, black sky.

Almost reluctantly, I stop. The very edge of my toes hangs over the edge, tempting the air, daring it to drag me into the void.

The height is immediately dizzying. The streets are clearing out below; bright, partying Capitolites are being replaced by drunken leftovers. I can see wide stretches of asphalt, slick in some places by spilled exotic drinks. The streets, mundane and washed out in the stark lighting, offer up a different kind of possibility.

There's more than enough room down there for me to join them.

I shove my hands into my pockets as the wind buffets me from behind, refusing to think about anything. About them. The only thing I know in this moment is the exact distance it would take for me to step over the edge.

There's a warm, unfamiliar shape pressed against the knuckles of my hand, resting comfortably between my fingers and the lining of my pocket. I feel a wild surge of confusion before I remember exactly what it is – the little copper dancer that used to belong to Day. The only thing tethering her to the real world.

But that doesn't matter anymore. She's dead now, and I killed her. Whether it was the right thing to do or not, I'll never know. I'll always have to live with the guilt, and she will always be, truly and firmly, gone.

I draw the little figure out of my pocket and it rolls into one of the divots between my fingers. I can see why Day found its weight comforting – it balances easily on my hand, just enough substance to it that it's something to cling to.

The wind tears at my hair as I look over the edge. I'm so confused, so torn apart, that all those promises I made to myself are slipping away. How am I supposed to keep going when the guilt resting on my shoulders is so heavy it's suffocating me? I'm drowning in it, so deep that it would take more than I have to claw my way out again.

I could not be seriously considering letting the wind drag me over this edge, down to the pavement below.

But I am.

I know that I have a family to return to. That there's plenty left worth living for. That I promised myself I was stronger than this. Even that it was the Capitol that did this to them, and that they would use them again if I didn't do what I had to.

But all I can think is that the height is definitely enough to kill me on impact.

I hold Day's token out over the drop, and it glints dully in my fingers. I am testing myself, testing the drop. There's no way I could go over this edge.

And yet, it is so, so easy to let the token slip through my fingers. Its blank face catches the light one more time before it disappears into the blackness. Despair is clawing at my throat as I watch it go, the wind at my back easing me forward, encouraging, _follow it._

A strand of electricity snaps in the air, and suddenly the black air filling the drop turns white with a crackling burst of voltage. A shimmering force field, much like the one at the bottom of the arena, stretches briefly across the gap before fading into nothing. And then a tiny, copper figure flies past my eyes to skitter across the roof.

I jerk back, reeling for balance as my sudden movement nearly sends me over the edge. Panic spikes in my heart as the reality of the drop unfolds before me in dizzying clarity. I stumble backwards, and the relief that sets in as I return to solid ground is staggering. I guess I don't know what I want as well as I thought I did.

"What the hell?" I mutter, narrowing my eyes and scanning the roof as the tiny object comes to a rest. I don't know what to think, but right there is Day's token, glinting knowingly from the tar-papered roof. I shuffle toward it cautiously and, after a second's hesitation, bend down to pick it back up. It doesn't look any worse for the wear, other than the faint singe on its back where it must have hit the force field.

A force field. They put a damn force field around the place. There really is no way out.

A strangled, ironic laugh rips out of my lungs before I can stop it. I am standing here, alone, with Day's token in my hand, and I can't even follow them off of this roof. The Capitol has planned for even this. It's only a second before the laugh begins to sound more like a sob, and I'm fighting back tears again.

The wind's force flags, dropping suddenly into stillness, and in the resulting quiet I give them the only tribute I know to give.

"Roe, Coral, Day," I whisper, and I'm praying desperately that it's not only the stars that can hear me. "I'm so sorry."

The wind picks back up again, meeting my words with whistling retribution.

_Hey. _It's a warm, achingly familiar voice. The voice of the better side of my conscience.

And then it is all three of them.

_Thanks._

They are gone that quickly, and I am left convincing myself that I made it all up in my head. That's the only logical explanation, and after everything that has happened to me, I'm only surprised that I didn't start hearing her earlier. They intended to drive us crazy by making us hear voices; it'd be the perfect ending to their game to leave me hearing them even now.

Maybe I'm just hearing them because I really _don't_ want to step off of this building, and this is my way of reassuring myself that it's okay to keep on living, even after what I did.

But I've seen a lot of crazy things at the Capitol's hands. They've put a twelve year old girl in my head, made me care for her. Suspended me on their golden wires and told me to kill 23 other children. Every year, they make children revert to animals in the name of keeping the peace, and millions of citizens fall in line.

I'm just one survivor. No one important enough to pass judgment on this sort of thing. I'll never be able to justify what I did in that arena. But it's not just hope that makes me think that there's some part of Roe and Coral and Day that's stronger than death. What made them who they were was too vibrant, too real to just disappear when they did.

And not just them. All 23 of the children the Capitol killed this year. The 23 last year. The thousands of people that the Capitol has watched starve to death. And me. I don't want to disappear like the Capitol wants me to. All of their cruelty is supposed to make us fade into shadows of ourselves, too weak to disturb the empire they've constructed. But I'm not ready to accept that yet.

So I tuck Day's token back into my pocket and walk away from the edge of the roof, back to the door that leads down into the Training Center. The Capitol has blindfolded Panem, but I've been here. I've seen. I will never forget. And when they slip, and the blindfold lifts, I will be ready.


End file.
